Music for the Brave
by SimplyMari
Summary: "Do you hear the clock, Bernadette? Do you hear it ticking away? Tick, tick, tick, tick, ticking until... until nothing. And the nothing is approaching - yes, the nothing is rapidly approaching." Time is running out for Bernadette Baudin and meeting a certain someone helps her to realise that some rules are best followed.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The ballet mistress judged my appearance with a calculating gaze, circling me as a predator would with its prey. I tried to control my glare, believe me I did, but it proved as far too much of a challenging task. My expression was twinned with death itself.

She studied me from all angles; prodding me here and poking me there. If I am not mistaken, she also inhaled deeply from behind me.

The woman had a stern expression on her aged features and her hair was thrown up at the top of her head at such a height that I wondered if she was always in great discomfort. She certainly looked as though she had smelt something vile or possibly had something stuck up her-

"She will suffice," the mistress decided, "But does she have talent, Monsieur?"

My father, a portly man with a terribly red face and swollen limbs, was the man that had dragged me here in the first place. He certainly already knew the answer to that question, but still he hesitated. It was almost as if he thought lying would do him good.

"She has not… demonstrated any talents as of yet. Though she has a charming face, no?"

I very nearly snorted- knowing my father considered me the scum of the earth- though somehow I refrained. I was in enough trouble anyhow and making 'unladylike' noises would not improve my case.

"It is true that a pretty face will get you far in some professions, but not in this one. Au revoir, thank you for your time."

By now she had begun ushering us out, but my reckless, foolish father persevered.

"Fine, if there is no place in the chorus or ballet, put her on the cleaning staff. Please, Madame, I am desperate." Father spoke in hushed tones.

"Why so desperate, good Monsieur?" The Madame spoke in whispers also, but my ears strained.

"The child is beyond my and my wife's control. She has done some terrible, unforgivable things. Things I fear I cannot speak of."

"And?" The mistress urged.

I couldn't hold back an eye roll. It was highly amusing how they were speaking of me so freely as though I wasn't standing right next to them.

"We believe," he hesitated again, "that she is mentally challenged. It brings great shame upon our well-established family. We have read about your excellent teachings and your ability to right the wrongs of young women. Please, help me and if not, her."

The woman gave father a fake, sympathetic smile. I had seen this smile before, many times, used for me. Whenever I told people of my troubles, I would receive those smiles, and maybe a slight pat on the arm. 'Yes darling, but I'm sure everything will be just fine,' they'd say, or "such a vivid imagination!'.

For a minute I thought she would decline (no, I hoped she would). If she did I could carry on being such a 'terrible burden' to my parents. Evil, isn't it? If only they had listened to me when I told them I needed help. We would have never amounted to this if they had acted as parents should.

They were shunning me for something they could have so easily prevented. I smirked with narrowed eyes at the irony and said a silent prayer to whoever was up there in the sky.

Closing my eyes, I mentally chanted, _say no, say no, please say no._

"Monsieur, I am indeed always up for a challenge. I will take on your daughter."

My eyes popped open at once, only to quickly narrow to slits at the mistress.

"Oh, Madame! Oh than-" Father began.

"You may leave now. I expect pay every month. I will write to you every so often to report on her progress. That will be all. Say your goodbyes."

I decided that I disliked the uptight woman, though it was highly amusing that she was able to talk to my father in that offhand manner.

Father nodded at me briefly, making little eye contact, before turning back to the mistress.

"Excuse my bad manners, but I am not quite sure I caught your name. Nor did I introduce my…daughter."

He seemed to have trouble with the word daughter. Charming.

"Madame Elizabeth Deschamps, at your service. Might I inquire your name, Monsieur?" She bowed her head politely.

"Phillipe Baudin, Madame. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I trust you will notify me on any and all complications?" Father by now hand started backing away.

"But of course. Though I can assure you there will be no need."

"Very well. Goodbye then." He bowed before turning swiftly on his heel and briskly walking out.

Bye then, father dearest.

Now it was just I and Madame Deschamps. I was still puzzled as to why exactly a ballet mistress of all things was taking on troubled girls and making them suitable to be in the company of the highest Parisian society.

I wanted to leave. I didn't like the way she looked at me. It was like she could see into my mind and was probing at my darkest secrets.

_No! _I wanted to yell. _I won't let you! _She was just like everyone else- prying to know everything about me. But this time…this time I wouldn't tell. So far I had done an excellent job at remaining mute and I planned to continue.

"What is your name, girl?" Drat.

I stubbornly turned away, pretending not to have heard.

"I know you are not mute; nor are you deaf," she paused, "I wish for you to understand that I will not ask about what you have done in your past. I admit that I, naturally, am slightly curious but it is not my place to pry."

My eyes sparkled with approval and I met her gaze.

"In return I ask only for your name and that you will listen to what I have to say."

Taking a deep breath, I decided to respond. What harm could it do, after all? It's just a name. What harm could my name do?

"Bernadette, Madame. Bernadette Baudin."

I inwardly groaned. My voice sounded terribly shaking though it had nothing to do with Madame Deschamps' request. It was simply because it had been so long since I last spoke.

Sometimes I sang to myself, but that was in the safety of night-time- and under my breath! As confident as I may seem the majority of the time I could never bring myself to sing in front of others.

I knew for a fact that I was nowhere near tone death. I had _heard _tone death and it definitely sounded nothing like me.

That's why father claimed I had no recognisable talents. I had never sung in his or mother's presence so he wouldn't know.

It was true, however, that I was completely lacking of any talent in the dance department. I almost literally had two left feet. Father was aware of this, due to the numerous balls we had attended. He couldn't understand why I declined any male attention at such events and when I reluctantly demonstrated my…abilities he understood at once.

I had been reprimanded that evening since I had 'thoroughly embarrassed my entire family in front of all upper-class Parisian society'. My parents had never let me forget that night, keeping me on a tight leash whenever we attended social proceedings.

"Follow me, child. I need to address the rules and regulations you are acquired to accept and follow."

Madame Deschamps began walking quickly down the long, polished corridor. I took this time to examine the finer details; each wall was covered in a lime green and brown, flower patterned wallpaper, the kind that women usually gushed over. I personally could not see the appeal. Although, I had never really had an eye for housing décor, I did know nice wallpaper from less appeasing wallpaper.

The floors were gold (most probably not actually made of real gold) and polished to such a standard that I could see my face as I walked. My boots clicked and tapped against the flooring, and I, enjoying the sound, decided to make a real point of scraping my heels across the floor as I stepped. The sound was pleasant to me but definitely set Deschamps on edge.

As we walked I could vaguely hear the sound of an orchestra and a loud tenor voice, twinning with a soprano in a duet. I had heard stories of La Carlotta- the leading soprano during Christine Daae's time- and none of them were particularly decent. Some claimed her voice compared to a thousand nails on a blackboard. Others said she was a diva, consistently making obscene demands to the managers.

Residents of the opera house, workers and dancers alike, also roamed the corridors just as we were. They looked me up and down (certainly not in an appraising manner!) and the dancers glared with a hateful passion. I didn't mind, really, as I deemed their disapproval as childish and unworthy of my acknowledgement.

Ensuring Deschamps wasn't facing me; I turned to the juvenile dancers and bit my thumb with a feeling of triumph. I hope they understood the gesture.

Madame Deschamps cleared her throat, "Bernadette, if you'd please enter. We can discuss matter far more intimately inside my office."

She gave me that stern glare so I huffed, stomping my feet as I entered. She had obviously seen my unsophisticated gesture.

Deschamps followed behind me and shut and locked the door behind her. She motioned for me to have a seat, so I slumped down onto the plush settee and groaned. I had been walking around for far too long. I was greeted with yet another disapproving gaze when I raised my eyes.

We sat in silence for a while and I simply couldn't bear it.

"You know, Madame, I much prefer Bernie or Bern. Bernadette makes me feel like an old woman," I laughed lightly.

She remained expressionless.

"I will call you Bernadette, for that is the name which you were christened with."

I huffed again and folded my arms across my chest. After a while I squared my shoulders and glared.

"By now I am sure you have heard of our Opera Ghost."

I snorted. Of course I had heard- everyone had heard of the masked genius with a face so awful he had to hide from the world.

He kidnapped a dancer and burnt down the Opera house when she ran off with that Vicomte de Chagny. I also heard that he was dead. It had been five whole years since the mob raided his underground lair and chased him away. But now…he was back?

The mistress seemed to notice my pondering.

"He lives," she said.

"And why has no one gone looking for him?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at her. She didn't answer and instead busied herself with her notebook.

"You never answered my question," I murmured after a while. She ignored me still.

I said it more forcefully this time, causing her eyes to snap towards mine.

"You have the most disgraceful manners!" She exclaims, setting down the notepad she was writing in.

"And? Tell me something I am not aware of," I challenged in return.

She gave me a calculating gaze, "You will learn your place, young mademoiselle. No one speaks to me in that manner. I am of a much higher authority than you will ever be."

Ah, so she's a fortune teller now?

Deschamps stuck her long nose in the air, obviously taking my silence as complete submission.

The nerve of that old bag! What she needed was to be taught a lesson and I was more than willing to be her tutor. Though for now I would just test the waters, gain some of her trust and acceptance.

"Forgive me, Madame," I cast my eyes downwards, "It had been an overwhelming couple of days and- and-"

I took a few seconds to choke back a fake sob and sniffle.

"This is all so new to me and I really thank you for your teachings. In future I will be sure to watch my tongue. I will certainly never behave in a manner such as that again."

She seemed to buy my acting as she gave me that condescending smile and cheek caress that I had grown used to. It was always the same, lifeless cycle.

In our silence I gazed around the room, faking a thoughtful stare as I took in the dull portraits and brown furniture, marvelling at the large bookcase. Deschamps noticed and smiled kindly.

"Once you are settled in you may take whatever books you desire."

I nodded in thanks.

"So what are these rules of yours?"

She sobered up quickly, assessing me in her stern manner.

"First the general rules: You will not leave the opera house unaccompanied; You will not bring any men alone with you into rooms; and you will not go below the opera house. Consider it out of bounds."

_Like that will stop me, _I thought before nodding in an agreeable way. She caught her breath and continued. I didn't think there would be more!

"Box five of the opera house is to be kept empty, as per the Opera Ghost's wishes. If you value your life at all you will comply with his demands.

Your duty, since you have no talent that we are aware of, is to assist our Prima Donna. You will be expected to succumb to her each and every need without question. That means none of your smart mouth. Are we clear?"

"I am to be a maid- a servant!" I gasped, outraged.

Perhaps I had become too dependent on my luxurious life at home. I'd had my share of indulgences, depending on them greedily, and now I had to give something back.

This was my punishment for all of my 'sins'. Who willingly chooses a job like this? Being someone's slave for a day after losing bets is bad enough, but doing this for months…years? I failed to process the thought. If I hadn't been so desperate to escape home, I would have been sobbing like an infant by now.

"Is that a problem, mademoiselle?" She asked, looking down her nose at me.

"N-no, not at all," my voice wavered slightly, "Where am I to sleep, may I ask?"

She pondered this for a moment, tilting her head to the side and resting it on her left hand. I noticed she wore a ring; a golden band with two diamonds on each side. A wedding ring, I presumed. Where was the husband now? Why was she even here?

Ah yes, to 'right the wrongs of disobedient little girls'. That certainly would never be my career choice. Oh, no; I planned to be a writer.

I would write novels about female heroines saving the day. They wouldn't have to be beautiful or ladylike or worthy of high society. They would do what the wished. Surely men would be smitten with them, but that would not faze my heroines. None of this romance nonsense. After all, the storylines are always the same. The characters always meet in dull and cliché ways and they are always overly appealing to the eye.

In the real world not many people fit those over-flattering descriptions. At least not anyone I had met.

I don't expect to meet anyone handsome any time soon, nor do I wish to fall in love. In fact, I can safely so I will never fall in love.

Mother says I'm not 'marriage material' as I do not have the mannerisms or eloquence of a proper lady. I have an exquisite face, she tells me, though a husband would need to truly tolerate my presence, not my just my face. It's not like I wish to hang from a man's arm for the rest of my mortal life. Or bare children. Definitely no children.

"Are you quite finished, Bernadette?" Madame Deschamps questioned, breaking my trance. I gave a slight head inclination, inviting her to continue.

"Remind me again of our previous conversation?"

I blinked rapidly, being caught off guard by her question. Rules, I remembered…Opera Ghost- aha! Sleeping arrangements!

"I believe I inquired the location of my bedroom," I said.

She nodded, "Ah yes, I remember now. Did I answer?"

I shook my head, no.

"Well, you will be staying in either the Prima Donna's chambers, or one of the stage dressing rooms. They're the only free spaces we have."

I narrowed my eyes, "Won't the Prima Donna be staying in her chambers?"

"Most nights she returns home, rather than staying here. She needs to tend to her young."

"And why am I not able to stay in the dressing room permanently?"

"Would you not feel more comfortable in the Prima Donna's room? You will only need to stay in the dressing room if the Prima Donna chooses to stay here, which isn't very often."

"Very well. Are we finished now, Madame?"

She nodded and we both stood.

"For tonight you may stay in one of the dressing rooms and get settled in. Tomorrow you will awaken at six o'clock for your tour of the grounds. Then you will begin your duties."

I just nodded, following her through the corridors which were now lit by many candles. I could vaguely see the moon through one of the windows; it was full.

Too tired to pay attention to where she was leading me, I trailed behind blindly, not bothering to hold back any yawns. The corridors were quiet as presumably everyone had gone to sleep. How long had we been in Deschamps office?

We finally ended our journey at a dressing room at the back of the stage. 'Dressing Room 1' the door read. I opened it, allowing my eyes to scan the surprisingly large space, before drifting towards the bed in the corner.

Deciding to remember my manners, I muttered, "Thank you. I think I will be most comfortable here."

"I am glad." She almost smiled, but covered it quickly, turning to walk out.

By now I had almost fallen asleep on the comfortably cushioned bed, though before I could fully submerge myself in night, a faint cough was heard from the doorway.

Madame Deschamps half-turned towards the door and half-faced my bedroom. She seemed nervous about something, though I could not be sure. The woman was so very hard to read.

I squinted up at her, "Madame?"

Taking a deep breath, she replied, "Do not go looking for the Opera Ghost, Bernadette."

She sounded serious but also so very fearful. Almost as though she were frightened that I would allow curiosity to get the better of me. I smiled, nodded, and watched as she left. However once she was fully out and had shut the door, I smirked to myself. I was never one to abide the rules or commands of others and I wasn't about to start now.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I awoke with a violent start. The twisted dreams that had haunted me for the last five years if my life had still not ceased. What frightened me the most was not the content of the dreams, but the fact that I yearned for them to continue. I hungered for them to be real, rather than subconscious illusions.

I lived for the hurt, the blood, the pain and the killing that occurred in only during nightfall. I knew that it was wrong, though I found myself not caring each time the guilt and disgust washed over me. Why try to end something when it feels so rewarding?

I disliked how weak I felt in the real world. On the outside I appeared to be bold, brave and courageous. I appeared to be someone that you would do best not to confront (for I had always had a knack for winning arguments) or disagree with. When I wanted to, I could be a highly unpleasant person. I had been told this for a fact many a time.

On the inside, however, my soul and any morality I previously had, were slowly – painfully – deteriorating. No one could help me as they wouldn't care to listen to the ramblings of a silly young woman. I was trapped, for now, until I escaped.

Where I would go to still remains an unanswered query. I had always longed to travel to England, as I had always wished I could walk the streets William Shakespeare walked, all those years ago. His work was the main source of my inspiration, and surprisingly I could not thank my father enough for having such phenomenal work in his possession.

A sudden shiver came over me as I thought of father. 'Father' truly was not the most appropriate name for him. Nothing he had ever done had made him worthy of the title 'father'. My heart fell colder than it already was – if that is possible – at the mere thought of _him._

For as long as I could remember, he had treated me as vermin. I saw very little of him, perhaps an hour or so a day if I was particularly 'lucky', though the time I had spent with him had been filled with tears and hurt. That's when I took it upon myself to toughen up and rise above him. I threw great tantrums, destroyed doors, windows, glass figurines – almost anything I could get my hands on. This earned me endless beatings and foul names and words thrown in my face.

As I sat now in my nineteenth year of life, I began to ponder what was worse: the beatings or the words. Being whipped or slapped most likely would not leave a permanent mark, and if it did, in time it would fade.

However words, especially words as cruel as his, would leave a permanent mark on your heart. There would always be a permanent reminder in my head of how 'ugly', 'damaged', 'vile' and 'worthless' I apparently would never cease to be. No matter how much of a thick skin you may have, words will always be your demise.

Shaking away the troublesome thoughts, I sat up slowly. The room wasn't as inviting as it had appeared last night. Although last night I had been venturing on exhaustion, I still always have a highly perceptive mind at all hours. I spotted a mirror in the far corner and walked over. As I stood my head began spinning and I grabbed onto the bedpost, squinting at the creaking sound it made.

Could they not afford furniture of a safe standard? Whilst I had slept, the bed could have given way beneath me and I could have been greeted with an untimely death. That isn't to say that death would not have been welcomed. Even death sounded better than being someone's personal slave. I groaned at the reminder.

At a slow yet purposeful pace I made it to the mirror. There was just enough light in the room to suggest that the time was nearing six o'clock. Madame Deschamps would be here very soon. I wasn't sure that I was ready to face that dreadful woman at such an early time. My superstition was that she would be far more insufferable at an earlier time. Lucky me.

I took the time to gaze upon my worn features; my unruly blonde curls, chestnut brown eyes and unusually alabaster tinted skin. These past few weeks my skin had gradually paled. I supposed it was stress induced, as well as the impromptu morning sickness spells. Of course there were…other explanations. Explanations that were far more likely and more probable. I would refrain from informing anyone of that certain possibility, as they would surely evict me from here and back to my hateful parents. And I, enough of a shame to the family anyway, would be thrown onto the streets.

I pressed a palm to my stomach. It seemed no more meaty or swollen than usual. I really had no way of telling whether or not I truly was burdened with this predicament, but still I hoped that I wouldn't be.

I had no desire to be around whiny little people that regularly demanded to be fed, loved and nurtured. I wasn't even aware that I had the capacity to love someone, thus making me an unsuitable candidate for the role of a mother. The foetus would be a constant reminder of the circumstances of my impregnation, which certainly were not pleasant.

"Mother," I whispered, noting how the word sounded dull and sickly in my mouth. My own mother preferred me to call her 'Madame'. Sometimes, when I was feeling slightly rebellious, I would spite her and go against her wishes.

I shook my head, ridding my thoughts of the possibility. If the time came when I was forced to admit the likely gestation, then I would. For now I would attempt to go on with my slavery unnoticed.

To the left of the mirror I noticed a sink, toothbrush and bar of soap. Next to that, an open wardrobe with a number of black dresses with white pinafores draped over them. They were unflattering and bland – I would definitely find some way to complain about the lack of choice.

I washed and dressed before making my bed and sitting on the edge, awaiting the arrival of my commander. I had never made a bed in my life; the sheets where crinkled, the pillow limp and the duvet wonky. I thought I had done an adequate job, seeing as it was my first time having to fend for myself. I'd seen enough nicely made beds to attempt to copy that on my lonesome.

Having been up for approximately two hours, I wasn't surprised when I heard a brusque knock upon my old wooden door. I made sure to slouch into the pillows rather than sit straighter, just to push Deschamps' buttons.

"Who is it?" I asked sweetly.

"Bernadette, it is Madame Deschamps. Do not tell me you are still in bed?" She snapped from directly outside of my door.

"Of course not! Do come in," I insisted, kicking off my shoes so I could pick my feet up onto the mattress.

Deschamps entered, took one look at me and hurriedly shut the door, rushing to my side in an outraged manner. She proceeded to tug me upright by my shoulders, raise my chin, lace up my boots and pin my hair back neatly. It was almost as if she thought I wasn't capable of doing so on my own. I glared at her.

"What do you think you are doing?"

"Relaxing," I replied bluntly.

She did not seem amused. Instead, she pulls me to my feet and dusts down my dress, not caring when she brushes over my derriere. I blushed and yelped as she did so, until she was satisfied with the way I looked.

"You look quite the lady when you have been tended to appropriately."

"Thank you?" I questioned, unsure whether or not she was complimenting or insulting me.

"Yes, you are welcome. Follow me, child."

She led me from my room and through those long, winding corridors once again. This time there were no dancers or actors roaming the halls and gawking at me. Only a few stagehands, though they were too submerged in their work to properly notice me. I assumed it was much too early for the pampered princes and princesses of the stage.

I must have snorted or made some form of 'unladylike' noise since Deschamps shot me a furious look. I shrugged and continued on until we came to what I assumed was the Primadonna's room.

There was a large piece of metal on the wooden frame with the name 'Bruchan' engraved onto it. The door was slightly dented, as though it had experienced years of metal frames being taken down and put back on.

I looked to Deschamps as she pinched my elbow firmly. She nudged me towards the door, causing me to almost fall straight into it. Stopping myself, I knocked briskly, twice, and waited to be told to come in.

"This is where I leave you. Remember: do not answer back, or wonder off, or do anything apart from what she tells you."

I nodded to let her know I had heard her, but really I wasn't listening. I was too busy looking at the definition of true beauty standing before me. This must be the infamous Madame Bruchan.

She was extremely slender and had a body much like a young girl, and her eyes were the deepest shade of brown I had ever seen- so deep they were almost completely black. Her hair was lying loosely in strands of a dead-straight, silky brown.

She raised her eyebrows in surprise and that simple facial change caused me to snap back to my senses and curtsy politely.

"Madame Deschamps," the woman said, "Who, pray tell, is this wonderful young creature?"

I furrowed my eyebrows in disgust as all my liking towards her disappeared. Why must people always use such terribly condescending words whilst in my presence? I wondered if they could already tell what a terror I could be and decided to use patronisation, assuming I was just another silly little girl, to attain a place in my good graces. I took far more than _that _to win me over.

"This is your new maid, Bernadette. Her father brought her to improve her manners."

I shot a look at Deschamps.

"Oh, I see. I shall try my best to assist you in straightening this young lady out."

Madame Deschamps ignored my glares as she inclined her head and left. Madame Bruchan sighed what I imagined was a sigh of relief and ushered me into her room. It was…considerably bigger than my own room. I was too blinded by jealousy to take in every inch of it, though I did take note of the oversized mirror, the oversized wardrobe, the oversized bed and the oversized couch. Everything appeared to be oversized in here.

I watched with fascination as Madame Bruchan unceremoniously flung slumped down onto the divan in the middle of the room. I could not believe my eyes. They thought _I _was the one that needed 'straightening out' and here slumped a married woman of wealthy connections void of any ladylike mannerisms.

"What an insufferable woman," she sighed, placing her legs on the table.

I was unsure whether to follow her lead – and her eyes were practically daring me to – or to start dusting something. I decided to busy myself with fluffing the pillows. I'd always loved when my maids had done this. I faintly remembered them placing sweets and pastries under the puffed pillows, as they knew my parents never allowed me to consume such things.

Once I had finished I met the bizarre woman's eyes. She was watching me carefully, much like Deschamps had, but without the intense scrutiny.

"Bernadette." She stated slowly.

"Madame," I replied.

"Bernadette," she groaned again, though I did not reply. I wasn't quite sure I liked this silly game of hers.

"Please sit, you're making me feel skittish with all your movement."

I watched her cautiously as I did as she commanded, ensuring I sat straight with my shoulders back.

"No, no! This will not do! How are you to be in my company if you are insistent on jumping around, fixing perfectly fine pillows, while I am relaxing here?"

I squinted at her, supposing she was quite confused about the terms of my visit. I was sent to succumb to her every need and now she tells me not to do so. Admittedly I had not expected to have to fix her skirts after every step, but I had been prepared for something. In fact, I wanted to be her slave more than I wanted to be her friend.

"Madame-" I began.

"Murielle, please call me Murielle. I may be married but the word 'Madame' makes me feel so terribly old. Do continue."

"Very well, _Murielle._ Perhaps you were not informed about the terms of my visits to you. I am your maid. Not your friend or confident. You are meant to be ordering me around and I am meant to be following your commands."

She looked hurt for some reason. Her lips pouted and her whole face seemed to slump downwards. I guess it had something to do with me saying we weren't friends.

"I do not require a maid. To be honest, this was my husband's idea. He says that every young woman of wealth should have a maid."

If possible, Murielle sunk further in her seat.

"I am just so awfully lonely. I do not like having to walk the halls alone and see those piggish stagehands whispering to each other how much they wish me to be theirs. It frightens me. I cannot help but wonder what will happen if I am murdered here…my darling children would have to live without a mother, my generous husband would undoubtedly struck with grief.

"I just want a friend, Bernie. May I call you that? Bernadette is my daughter's name, you see, and she detests having to hear a name of that length spoken too much. I seem to be getting off subject. As I was saying, your friendship will be the only thing required of you. Will you grant me the gift of your company?"

I did not wish to have to endure the endless drone of her voice day in and day out. Nor did I desire the chance to sympathize with the troubles of the poor, lonely little rich girl. Could she not ask her husband to find her friends? Or, here's an idea, actually venture out and find her own friends?

I frowned, not wanting to upset her further. Despite her annoying complaints and babbling I could understand her point. I knew all too well what it was like to be lonely, friendless. The idea of a friend, even if they were irritating, did seem quite pleasant.

"Murielle, please understand that I have never been a friend to anyone. I am not quite sure what friendship requires, but I will try my best. That is, if you agree to try your best to tolerate my foul mouth and offensive comments."

She then did something I did not expect: she hugged me. She was warm and comfortable and I found myself growing far too emotional in her embrace. She reminded me of what I wished my mother had been like. She even smelt like my mother.

For a few seconds I pretended she was my mother, almost letting tears spill from my eyes. I composed myself quickly and sat straight. Murielle grinned at me and stood quickly. She held out her hand for me to take.

"Come now, my dearest Bernie, I do believe it is time for rehearsals."

I frowned, "You mean I am allowed to accompany you to rehearsals?"

"Well, yes," she paused, "Only if you would like to. We are starting a new opera today, so we need to hurry if we want to get there early! The managers hate tardiness."

She rolled her eyes and pulled me to my feet. Regardless of my usual cynic attitude, I was very excited to be going to watch an opera with a…friend. It was still very hard to admit to myself that I actually had acquired a friend in the space of no more than fifteen minutes.

Murielle patted my hair and ran her fingers through it, smiling much like a child did with a new toy.

"I love your hair; it is so unruly. An exquisite colour too. Wouldn't it be nice if we could swap bodies? I would love to look like you do. Oh, silly me! I have just assumed that you wish to look like me. I do not want too seem too big-headed! Oh, you think me pretentious now don't you?"

"No, not at all. I would gladly swap bodies with you. You are considered a great beauty, you know." I informed her, trying my best to sound friendly.

She blushed, "I do love the way you jest, Bernie."

I furrowed my eyebrows for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. Surely that was only the first time I had 'jested'. I hadn't even intended for her to take my compliment as a joke.

"Murielle, I can assure you I am not jesting," I paused, noting the slight happiness in her eyes, "You are definitely beautiful, if I may say so myself."

This was not a lie; she really was very handsome. Her character, however, certainly did not match the sophistication of her face. You would assume that someone with her looks would be extremely shallow – perchance even slightly dull-minded. She truly was a pleasant surprise.

Murielle held my hand in hers, treating me with the delicacy one would give a porcelain doll, and led me through the unfamiliar corridors of the Opera House. She babbled on gleefully as we strolled, talking of nothing that interested me. I nodded when necessary and made noises of agreement but apart from that I was completely entranced by the splendour of the theatre. I realised then that I could learn to tolerate this place; partly because of my newest acquaintance and the exquisite surroundings. Mostly it was my determination to discover the ghost's hideout.

Before I knew it we had arrived at the stage. By this time, Murielle had improved her posture and seemed to have regained her ladylike mannerisms. Now, rather than holding my hand, she wrapped her whole arm around mine. I was not entirely sure whether I liked her closeness or not.

Seeing that there was no one around, Murielle skipped over to the middle of the stage and began coughing and doing what I assumed were vocal exercises. Looking around again, Murielle started barking like a dog.

It took me a moment to fully process what she was doing before I erupted in nervous laughter. The sound wasn't wholly foreign to me, but it was a rare occasion that I let the happy noise escape my lips. I am unaware why I considered her sudden act of insanity and arbitrariness as funny, but I did.

Hearing my laughter, Murielle glanced at me, her face the personification of pure gaiety. She then began dancing wildly and for a moment I considered joining her mad dance. My consideration was not followed through as we both stopped what we were doing at the sound of an outraged gasp.

I turned quickly and saw a round faced man wearing a suit which reflected his obvious wealth. I presumed he was one of the two managers currently at the Opera.

"Madame Bruchan!" He exclaimed, "What on earth are you doing? This act surely cannot be safe for a woman like you!"

I glared at him slightly. Murielle seemed very embarrassed and I took her pleading glance as a request for help.

"Monsieur, Madame Bruchan was startled by a very large spider. As you arrived she was simply ridding herself of the vile pest."

He nodded at me, dismissing my explanation as he fussed over the Prima Donna. Murielle gave me a sad look, though I shook it off and perched myself on a red velvet seat.

During this time I was able to look around the stage. I understood it was not decorated as it might have been during a performance, yet I still marvelled at its sheer magnificence. I had always had an interest in theatres and stages, particularly this one. I eyed the rest of the theatre; the rows of seats, the curtains, the many doors. I gave a particularly pointed glance to box five. The forbidden box.

It may have been my imagination, but I was almost certain that I saw one curtain give a slight flourish. I shook my head and turned back to the stage.

By now the ballet dancers and actors had gathered on the stage. A conductor seemed to be ordering them and providing them each with sheet music. I saw Madame Deschamps lurking in a corner, quietly instructing the dancers. She regarded me with a strange look before turning back to the girls.

Murielle was also singing her solo. It took me a while to notice she was singing directly to me. I vaguely remembered hearing the aria before - _D'amour, l'ardente flame_ was its name. What puzzled me was that that particular aria was about a young woman's sorrowful brooding at the fact someone had left her. _Le damnation de Faust!_ As Murielle winked at me, I realised that she meant for it to be a joke.

I snorted quietly, though apparently it wasn't quiet enough. Murielle heard it and smiled, the dancers heard it and gasped, the managers heard it and glared and Madame Deschamps…well I cannot even begin to describe the pure hatred on her face. They had obviously all jumped to the immediate conclusion that I had been laughing at her singing. _Fabulous._

"Stop the music! Stop the music! Halt! It seems our new little Mademoiselle finds the greatest singer to grace our Opera House amusing." A manager sneered, sticking his long nose into the air.

"Perhaps she thinks that she can do better!" The conductor piped in. All the while I was shaking my head.

The other manager spoke up, "Yes, do come up here and show us your obviously great talents. What is her name, Madame Deschamps?"

"Bernadette Baudin." She spoke quietly, undoubtedly ashamed of me.

All at once people from all corners of the stage taunted me with their 'hurtful' words, expressing their outrage. I stood up at once, smirking at each person that opened their mouth. At the word 'bitch' I began to laugh heartily. I laughed so loud I was unaware that Murielle had somehow managed to stop everyone's shouting.

"The fault was mine, not Mademoiselle Baudin. As she was informing me earlier, she is very familiar with the opera. She noticed that I had muddled up some of the words, though I did not understand that she was mouthing the correct words to me. She was merely laughing at my rather frantic bid to decipher her speech."

It wasn't a very believable story, but somehow people seemed to fully believe what she said. I assumed it had something to do with her Prima Donna status.

"Very well. Practice is over for today. You shall all return to your dormitories." A manager said. I did not care to know his name at that current moment.

Murielle indicated for me to follow her back to her room and I did, huffing and stomping as I went. She did not dare touch me this time and I was grateful. I did not think it would be safe to be within touching distance with me at that current moment.

We reached her room and I didn't step aside to let her go first. Instead I trekked over to the far corner and crossed my arms over my chest. My gaze moved to the mirror and I rolled my eyes at its ridiculous size. I heard Murielle sit down on the divan. This time she seemed to remember her poise.

"What have I done to upset you?" She asked quietly.

I turned around and stormed in front of her.

"I could have handled that just fine on my own, Madame! I do not need to be assisted by anyone!"

"That is not true."

"Yes it is! Do not try to correct me!"

She stood level with me and spoke quietly, "Do not raise your voice at me. You do not scare me and I know that underneath your hard exterior you are hurting inside."

I let out a barking laugh, "Do not pretend to know me! We haven't even known each other for a full day – merely a couple of hours. I am not 'hurting' inside, as you so delicately put it. I am fine, I am well, and I am alive."

I would never admit it, but I seemed to be attempting to reassure myself, more than her. She did not seem to believe me, in any case.

"I am very sorry." She looked at me then with those sympathetic eyes. The eyes which everyone seemed to offer me when I seemed unstable. She was just like everyone else.

"Please, save your apologies. I will see you tomorrow – hopefully I will be in more of an agreeable mood then. Goodnight, Madame. If you would excuse me," I said as I curtsied and practically sprinted out of the room.

I was far too proud to allow her to see my increasingly flushed cheeks. I wasn't ashamed of the way I acted; I was more embarrassed that she had seen past my façade. Not knowing entirely where I was going I sprinted up the staircase. I went up and up and up until I came to a steel door. It creaked open after I had nudged it with my shoulder.

I almost closed my eyes and turned back as I faced the bright, midday sun. The sky was sparse of any clouds and was a pure blue. I could not remember the last time I had actually enjoyed being out in the sun. I ran to the edge and leaned over, gasping at the sight of the city from above.

I smiled to myself as I remembered a song my mother always sang when the sun shone. It never made sense to me; she sang a song that wasn't happy in the least whilst the weather was quite the opposite. I started to hum it until my gleeful mood forced me to sing quietly.

_"Well I recall his parting words_

_Must I accept his fate_

_Or take myself far from this place_

_I thought I heard a black bell toll_

_A little bird did sing_

_Man has no choice_

_When he wants every thing_

_We'll rise above the scarlet tide_

_That trickles down through the mountain_

_And separates the widow from the bride_

_Man goes beyond his own decision_

_Gets caught up in the mechanism_

_Of swindlers who act like kings_

_And brokers who break everything_

_The dark of night was swiftly fading_

_Close to the dawn of day_

_Why would I want him just to lose him again_

_We'll rise above the scarlet tide_

_That trickles down through the mountain_

_And separates the widow from the bride."_

I finished the last verse with a slight wobble in my voice. I had not realised that I had been nearing tears until I completed the song.

It made me think of mother and of how I missed her despite not really knowing her. It made me think of father and how much I detested him. But most of all it made me think of my escape from this loathsome place.

As I cowered in the corner of the rooftop I did not notice the eyes angrily boring into the back of my head.

* * *

**I had originally intended to get this out last week, but my schedule has been unusually busy as of late. I'd like to thank RedDeathLvr for reviewing and following, SunWillRise2340 for the favourite and CupidsArrow27 for following!**

**The song used in this chapter is The Scarlet Tide by Alison Krauss. **


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

It took me the whole of five seconds to notice how absurd I was being. Really- cowering on the rooftop, singing sad songs? I would have scoffed if I wasn't feeling so distraught.

Noticing how close I was to the edge, I peered over, overlooking the busy street-goers as they rushed around going about their daily business. It was then that I decided to be overly sentimental as a bird whizzed past my head. I imagined being a bird then. Oh, how free birds were! They could fly, for one thing, and they appeared to be entirely happy to live their lives doing just that.

I stood dangerously close to the edge as I reached towards the bird. I envisioned touching its wings; hanging on as we flew across the vast skies. The feathered friend floated in front of my face, tempting me further.

I reached forward, smiling with glee as my fingers graced its soft feathers. I only managed to touch it for a second before it flew back slightly, causing me to move forward and forward and forward…

I yelped as strong, firm hands yanked me backwards. I had expected to land into this person's arms, but they must have moved back, for I found myself unceremoniously falling onto my backside. I sat dazed for a moment before glancing around me.

Had I imagined those hands? They had felt very real and the person had smelt very real too. I didn't remember the scent, though when I inhaled there was a highly cologne-like odour lingering behind me.

I stood, wincing at the pain in my lower back as I peered into each corner of the roof. There really was no one there. Perhaps I am insane after all.

"You won't find me," came a quiet voice which seemed to float all around me. Male, I noted, hearing the deep undertone the musical voice held.

"What makes you think I want to find you? I was only trying to reassure myself that I did not imagine you, and well done, Monsieur! You've done my job for me!"

I sat down on the edge of a clay statue, resting my now painful rear. I heard a chuckle then (a mocking chuckle) which seemed to come from directly in front of me.

"Is that any way to thank your saviour?" He chided.

"Considering I didn't require saving – and you essentially placed your hands upon me in an unnecessary and undignified manner – I do not believe a 'thank you' is appropriate." I snapped back, feeling silly for talking to thin air.

"Touché, Mademoiselle. Nevertheless you should know that without my speedy reflexes you would have fallen to your death."

"I do love how you immediately assume I am not married. How very discourteous of you," I paused to smirk, "And you should know, good Monsieur, that I would not have fallen. Despite being a woman, I actually do have common sense."

"Ah and here is where your defences falter: I know for a fact that you are not married."

My head snapped up then, "And how, pray tell, are you so sure?"

"I may have overheard a few of your tête-à-têtes. Not once did anyone refer to a husband or you as a married woman."

I could practically hear the smirk in his voice. I chose not to reply; instead I crossed my arms over my chest and glared in front of me.

"What – no comeback? Oh don't stop now; I was having so much fun!"

I stood abruptly to my feet. I was not in any position, nor would I ever be, to indulge in conversation with a man that had such disgusting arrogance. Especially if I could not even face him! Or rather, he could not face me.

I decided to do the only thing I knew how. I fought back.

"So you can spy on me from the shadows but you cannot face me after assaulting me? Come now, Monsieur, are you so ugly that you cannot bear to reveal your monstrous face? Much like the rumoured Phantom, are you not?"

He growled, "Be careful what you say!"

At this remark, I threw my head back and laughed heartily. I was being incredibly cruel, I knew that, but I could not stand being ridiculed. Usually I was the one ridiculing others and the unwanted change did not sit well with me. In any case, it simply was not in my programming to filter my thoughts – more so whilst I'm angered.

I continued my laughter, "What will happen if I do not take care with my wording? What then?"

"You _will _regret it. People learn not to get on my bad side, _Mademoiselle,"_ came his feeble response.

There was something about the way he said my title which infuriated me to no end. Perhaps it was his tone; he spoke as though the very word left an abhorrent taste in his mouth. Or maybe, and I was more inclined to believe this reason was the case; it was the shameless arrogance which came with his wording.

He spoke in such a dignified manner that led me to believe that he assumed he was far more respectable and upper class than I. _Upper class, _I thought bitterly, turning my nose up at the very term. Whoever came up with the 'classes'?

Next I made possibly the most foolish mistake in my current existence. I fought back.

Never one to take badmouthing from someone, I replied, "Oh, what can you do Monsieur? Surely it is not in your best interest to dirty the finery you are clearly dressed in."

"I would never harm a woman."

Again he said the term in such a way that led me to believe he could very well be a misogynist.

"So you will not lay a hand on me directly," I paused dramatically, with a finger resting on my chin, "Oh wait! I understand now. God forbid, Monsieur, you are an acquaintance of the feared Phantom! What will you have him do to me; kidnap me and make me his bride? Will I become the next Christine de Chagny?"

I must have hit a nerve then, as a loud crash resounded on the roof. It took me far too long to realise that the crash was produced by my 'saviour', jumping from the statue and landing behind me.

I jumped up in surprise and made a move towards the door. I made about three steps before he had me in a rough headlock, blocking my air supply. I gasped, kicking out behind me and feeling satisfaction as my heel made contact with his shin.

Groaning, the brute released me, but before I could turn to face him he pushed me to the floor, not caring as my head hit the stones with a crunching sound. I felt momentarily dazed; my head started pulsating wildly and my sight was blinded by stars and bright colours.

"So much for not harming women," I muttered as he placed one hand over my eyes and one around my neck. He placed pressure on both, though not enough to harm my eyes or choke me.

"You vile bitch!" He growled, coming down to my face.

He was so close that I could smell fruit on his breath. It was a fairly pleasant smell, though I was almost certain it would have been considerably more agreeable, had we been in different circumstances.

"What am I to do to you now?" He questions, running the hand not obscuring my vision up my stomach, coming dangerously close to my décolletage.

I managed to wheeze out, "I would be of no use to you, Monsieur."

He chortled, "And why is that, viper?"

"For one, I am spoiled already. And second, I have reason to believe I am with child."

He didn't reply for a moment, so I proceeded, "You would not risk harming a foetus, would you? The offence truly would be damnable."

He seemed to ponder this for a moment, clucking his tongue multiple times before leaping off of me. I opened my eyes, startled by his sudden movement, and gasped for breath. I looked to the corner which he fled and only saw a dark silhouette.

I watched the rise and fall of his shoulders for a while, absentmindedly placing a hand on my stomach. It was true I still did not know for sure if my condition was definite- and I still hoped it was not. Still, the very possibility of harming a woman and child either repulsed or saddened him.

It was silent for a moment. I daren't attempt to take my leave. Truth be told, the man frightened me. I had no current intention to anger him again, as I did not enjoy being powerless in the presence of a man. As I thought about it, I didn't very much like the idea of being powerless in the presence of _anyone._

Nevertheless, the strange, violent character intrigued me. Not in the way girls my age were intrigued by handsome males. He was just interesting, plainly and simply interesting. The way he could so easily become angered was exhilarating for me, as it proved he and I were quite alike.

I had yet to see him, but through the black clothing (a cape, presumably) two bright eyes burned into my own. They made me feel naked. He looked at me with such intensity that I could not bear to look away. He closed his eyes briefly, freeing me from his burning gaze. I could see his face clearly now, my eyes trailing over the pearly white mask adorning one side of his face.

The realisation of exactly who I had been messing with hit me like a tonne of bricks. I fell to one side, both in shock and happiness that I did not need to venture down into the cellars after all. I let out a breathy laugh.

"What is funny?" He asked his voice so calm that I was slightly frightened.

"It's just that- well…You're the Phantom! Actual flesh and blood! This is a great find, you see, as I had feared I would have to go and look for you by myself."

He glided further forward, now fully in my view. He towered over me like a building from my position on the floor, and I guessed he was over six feet tall. Strangely enough his size did not intimidate me. In fact, he appeared to be like any other thirty-something man. At least, his youthful appearance led me to believe that was his age.

"Do you fear me?"

"Would it not be entirely appropriate for me to fear you, after your little tantrum?" I countered.

The phantom seemed to blush as he looked down at his feet, ashamed of his actions most probably.

"You will be pleased to know that it takes more than violence to faze me, Monsieur Le Fantôme."

He bared his teeth at me, "I can assure you, my 'tantrum' as you call it was a kinder display of what I wished to do to you."

I snorted, "_Cad é an fear millteanach drámatúil."_

I spoke in Irish, in order to say whatever I pleased without him understanding. The language brought me back to my younger years; we had an Irish maid that decided to teach me her native language. I would use it whenever I was around her, and for a brief time I spoke it around my parents. This thoroughly displeased them, only making it more of a game for me to do so.

The phantom made haste at my foreign remark and was soon crouching in front of me.

"What devilish tongue do you speak, woman?" He growled, shaking me by the shoulders.

"_Gaeilge," _I replied simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Tell me!" He shook me with more force now.

"I just did!"

I pushed him back with all my might, successfully flinging him onto his backside. He was dazed for a moment before springing to his feet, standing over me once again. He leant towards me, throwing out his hand.

I recoiled backwards; shielding my face from the blow that I was certain would follow. It never came. Instead, I heard an impatient sigh and felt a light tugging on my right hand. I peeked out from beneath my hands and searched his face for any sign of malice. Seeing none, I took his waiting hand, allowing him to pull me to my feet.

Standing face to face with the Phantom was not as frightening as I imagined. I saw a man, granted a man with serious anger issues, but a man nonetheless. And he didn't look like he wanted to do me further harm.

"I believe an apology is in order." He murmured.

I cocked my head to the side, placing a hand beside my ear, "Listening."

He stared with disbelief for a moment, his expression morphing from humorous to indifferent in the same moment.

"I apologise for any…trouble I have caused you."

"And…?" I prolonged the word, smiling happily to myself.

"What else is there to say?" He shouted, earning an amused smirk from me.

"My, my, quite the temper, Monsieur. Not to worry, I will bid you au revoir."

I went to walk away towards the roof door, but soon found the task was very difficult. At some point during our confrontation, my ankle had been injured, and I was now forced to walk with a limp. I felt more excruciating pain with every step.

"Merde," I whispered, grasping the doorknob with a bone-crushing grip.

"That wasn't a very ladylike expression," came his highly entertained voice.

"Well, I do not care for ladylike manners. I do as I please. Now, stop standing there like a fool and help me open this door."

His expression morphed from slightly amused to lethal in what seemed like a nanosecond. He placed his hand on a particular section of the statue he had leaped from, a few minutes prior. If looks could kill I would have already been struck dead.

_Though, _I thought bitterly, _death would have been a sweet release from the pain I was currently feeling. _

The phantom's gaze returned to me briefly, and for a second I thought I saw a trace of remorse in those piercing eyes. It was gone before I could fully process it.

"You will soon learn, Mademoiselle, that the Phantom does not take orders."

And with that last remark, he disappeared from my line of sight.

* * *

**Hello! Thank you once again for your review, RedDeathLvr. Here is the pinnacle chapter: Bernadette meets Erik. I hope it wasn't too soon. I'd love to hear what you think of this chapter. **


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

After I had returned from the roof that afternoon, I did not hear from the Phantom for an entire fortnight. In a way, I was tremendously grateful for this – as he was a great brute – though there was still that tugging in the back of my impossible mind which encouraged me to go below the Opera House. I simply had to know him; danger attracted me. Though the man himself held no appeal to me, his actions and backstory did.

Madame Deschamps, surprisingly, fussed over my condition. I went into little detail concerning how exactly I had managed to sprain my ankle and she did not pry. I believe she suspected something more, deliberately questioning me on matters that did not concern her.

A number of times she asked whether or not I had something to tell her, to which I promptly replied 'no', and she was most likely referring to my suspected pregnancy. Many times when I was in her presence I became inclined to clutch onto my slightly swollen stomach with maternal protection. I refused to open up to her about anything, and politely declined.

Her bed rest order, however, was not something that I could refuse. Murielle had vacated her room after our disagreement, deciding she would much rather visit her children than stay in the Opera House, where she was not needed at the moment. This left me to inhabit her room for those thirteen days.

Aside from the lavishly grand furniture and magenta pink walls, it was by no means a horrible room. Murielle had kept it quite clean – I strongly suspected she did not keep it this clean alone. I found myself lacking any discomfort, even after a few short minutes.

I spent my days sat on the divan, obeying Deschamps' interesting order to 'put my feet up', and waited until she had safely departed.

Every day, as the door was halfway open, she would poke her long head through the gap and say: "Bernadette, if you shall require anything, you need only ask.

Each day we performed this cycle, ending with me nodding and thanking her. Then, once the door was closed, I would submerge myself in the silk throw-over. Some days, I would nibble at the sweets Deschamps had left behind. Others, I would try to sleep soundly, attempting to slumber without dreams of any sort.

On the fourteenth day of my comfortable resting, I received an unexpected (unwanted) visit. In fact, I had just wrapped myself up in the silken cover and had almost given into sleep when a booming laugh echoed around the room.

Yelping, I jumped up immediately and leapt off of the divan. I knew who it was almost at an instant.

"You bastard! Show yourself!" I commanded, wrapping the silk around my shoulders.

I wore only my sleepwear, as per Deschamps' orders.

"I resent your tone, Mademoiselle," he spoke with mock threat in his voice. His tone was slightly insulting.

"You know what?" I asked, glaring at the ceiling, "I resent you." I huffed, much like a child, "What businesses have you with me, Monsieur?"

He cackled again, motivating me to start hobbling (and I had to hobble, since my ankle was paining me still) around the room, in search of the lover of trickery.

I peered into the wardrobe, at the side of the dressing table, even at the window. He was nowhere to be seen. For some reason, the over-sized mirror caught my attention. I gave it a shove and kicked it with my decent foot for good measure. Where else could he have been?

"Where do you hide, coward?" I sneered, crouching into a defensive stance.

In response, his musical laughter once again filled my ears. It was a joyous sound, though I did not have time to dwell on that during a moment of anger.

He ceased his laughter with a sigh of contentment, "Dear girl, I fear that if I were to inform you of my whereabouts, you would not believe you. And, I would probably have to kill you."

"How would you like to test that theory?" I asked, once again moving towards the mirror.

Could he be there?

I had heard many tales of his days trying to possess Christine Daae, and they had all included him visiting her through a mirror. After all, I remembered, this had been her room.

"Where?" I snarled, finally losing any control over my tone I might have had.

He sighed again and cleared his throat.

"That tells me nothing!"

This infuriating man must have had a passion for sighing as once again he did so. This time, his sigh was followed by a single word.

"Boo," he whispered sarcastically.

This time he had not used his little magic trick, and the sheer shock of it forced me to stumble back until I was once again on my rear. I turned until I was on my stomach and let my eyes trail down the divan in front of me before I came face to face with the Phantom's polished boots.

At this point, I should stress the fact that the divan was just a few centimetres shy of one meter off the floor. Until now, I had not comprehended the fact that a grown man could fit underneath it.

"Merde!" I gasped, springing to my feet at once. He leant out a surprisingly feminine giggle, an almost parallel opposite of his usually gravelly tone.

He covered the sound quickly with a cough. I peered into his eyes and saw that his pupils were severely dilated. Excellent. Not only was the Phantom in my current bedroom, but he was most probably drunk.

"Phantom-" I began.

He held up a single large hand to silence me, crawling out from the divan with two empty bottles in his hands. He stumbled slightly, a whole different person from the upright, graceful man I had met two weeks prior.

"I thought you were her." He stated sadly.

"Her?"

_"My_ Christine," he whispered, emphasizing the word 'my'.

I rolled my eyes then, taking the bottles.

I did not intend to drink from them, as I preferred not to exchange saliva with strange men and because I was now almost certain that my pregnancy was definite. I had started gaining exceedingly large amounts of weight in my torso and ankle area. It was now almost as though my calves and ankles had combined. Tying my corset had become an almost impossible task.

"You do not intend to drink that do you? I assumed you were with child." He glanced pointedly at my stomach.

If he, a stranger, had noticed, was it that obvious to Madame Deschamps?

"No, you insufferable dolt. I just refuse to talk to you whilst you're an intoxicated, blithering idiot."

He growled, though the noise faltered, not showing as much menace as the first time we had met. He stopped mid-growl and turned to me with excited eyes. For some reason, whatever idea he had suddenly had did not enthuse me as it apparently enthused him.

"I heard you on the roof that day. Your voice…it was tolerable, though nowhere near as perfect as Christine's."

He gazed off to a place I could not see as he reminisced over his beloved's voice.

"Was it your intention to reward me with some kind of twisted compliment?"

He nodded rapidly.

"Well it certainly did not come across that way."

He slumped down to his knees, his intriguingly sad eyes filling with a thousand heartbroken tears. His sadness left me uneasy, as I was unsure of how exactly I was meant to react. Was I supposed to pity the drunken fool?

His eyes turned to me, searching for something I could not (would not) give him.

"Do you expect me to comfort you? Because I will not. Are you a man or a child? Act your age."

He let out a quiet sob, "Christine…Where did she- why did she leave?"

I crouched to his level, ignoring his words and the violent pain coming from my ankle.

"Listen, Phantom, listen to me." I slapped his cheek, lightly nut with slight pressure.

"How dare you lay your filthy hands on me, viper!"

He lunged towards me, his eyes now full of malice. I kicked him in the chest and clawed at the hands which threatened to wrap around my throat.

Something in my eyes, perhaps my fake fear, seemed to baffle him and forced him to break down and resume his previous position.

I waited a few moments before he had managed to control his anger.

"Monsieur, now that you have grasped hold of your temper, will you allow me to speak?"

He grumbled, "I highly doubt your opinion will cease the pain in my weary heart."

I squinted in disgust at his poetic words. All of this 'pain' was because of one girl?

"I am not trying to ease your pain, Monsieur- oh, what is your name? It cannot very well be Phantom. If it is in fact 'Phantom', I pity you tremendously."

I tried to make light of the situation, though when he failed to reply I took matters into my own hands.

"Very well, we shall try it this way. I am Bernadette; however I cannot truthfully say it is nice to meet you."

"Brave," he murmured.

"Your name is Brave? My, that is even worse than 'Phantom'," I jested.

"No, Mademoiselle, your name."

"My name…is Brave? Monsieur, it is Bernadette, like I said. I fear the cognac has done nothing to help your intellect."

"No you dull girl! Your name means brave as a bear. My word, is it always so difficult to maintain intelligent conversation with a woman?"

I gasped, "Well you are also to blame! You weren't exactly being clear with your wording."

We glared at one another for a few moments. I was the first to break the silence with a sigh. I was the one to sigh!

"What is your name?" I asked sternly.

"Phantom, or Opera Ghost if you prefer. Some abbreviate it to OG."

"Your real name, fool."

He narrowed his eyes, "I do not appreciate your insistence in calling me a fool. I assure you, little miss, I am not the fool."

"Well, my lord," I said with an exaggerated bow, "Please excuse my blindness!"

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. Also, I would gave assumed that form of wit was beyond your years. How old are you anyway? Thirteen?"

"Such bold questions. Sorry to disappoint you, but I am a few months shy of being twenty."

He snorted, "And how did such a youthful woman find herself in this predicament?"

He gestured rudely to my stomach. I shrunk away then, moving away from him and his harsh words. I placed a hand to my abdominal then; it seemed that this was becoming some sort of habit. At this protective gesture, a mean smirk stretched across his face.

"In a brothel, were you? Or perhaps you just enjoy pleasing any old fellow! Where is the bastard's father?"

My lips curled up, causing my teeth to bare. He did not seem fazed but this defensive and warning gesture, though as my fist made contact with his nose he let out a strangled yell. I looked at him, only seeing blood and the slightly dislodged mask. For once in my life I was ashamed of my brash, rebellious actions. In all fairness, he did deserve it, being the arrogant swine that he was.

I looked at my fist and saw it covered in blood, motivating me to spring into action.

I instructed him to hold his nose as I rummaged through the vast drawers and cupboards. Finally finding a towel I rushed over to him and made an attempt to slow the bloodflow.

"I'm so sorry," I wasn't, "Oh, Mon Dieu, what can I do?" I asked, squinting as I saw that half of the towel was already covered.

He laughed bitterly, "I have been punched many times in my life, though no punch has ever come close to drawing blood. And a woman's punch too!"

I managed to let out a peal of proud laughter before focussing once again on stilling the pouring blood.

"Don't get offended, Mademoiselle. It should be considered a compliment that you punch like a fully grown man."

I ignored his comment, "Do you think it's broken?"

I secretly hoped that it was broken. Even the most fanciful jewels would not compare to the satisfaction of breaking a supposed invincible man's nos.

Jewels never really did appeal to me, anyhow.

The Phantom gave me an incredulous glare. As the bottom of his face was covered, all I could see were his eyes and that raven black hair. I still failed to get over the sun-like coloured orbs. They were both beautiful and mystical, and haunting and piercing.

We stared at one another carefully for a short while; we took to studying each other with the utmost care.

Finally, I decided to break the silence. This caused the Phantom to blink rapidly before averting his sweltering gaze.

"Well?" I asked, raising my eyebrows at him.

"I am no doctor, Mademoiselle, though I can assure you that my nose is no more horrific than usual."

"I believe you have made it out relatively unscathed on this occasion, Monsieur. Apart from severe blood loss."

"I'll survive, Bernadette."

I stopped then and faced him with a wide, full-toothed grin. He furrowed his eyebrows at me.

"May I inquire the reasoning behind your gleeful expression?"

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling, suddenly feeling terribly foolish.

"Well, I… It's just-"

"Yes?" He intercepted.

I swallowed loudly, "We have made progress, you see."

"Pardon? How so?"

"You said my name. You called me Bernadette and that is my name."

His eyebrows drifted further down his face, if that were possible. He looked both embarrassed and completely horrified by my declaration, almost as though he could not understand why I was so happy about such a small thing.

"Does this mean I can know your name?"

He had stopped bleeding now, though a faded red stain remained above his mouth and on his chin.

"No."

"No?" I frowned.

"No."

I groaned, "At least tell me why."

"Because I have decided that would be best."

I mimicked his sentence, adding a whiny tone to it.

"Do not ever take up acting as a career. At least not acting which requires a difference in your voice."

"Could I guess your name? Or could you give me a clue – where did your name originate?"

He seemed to ponder my suggestion for a while, assessing my face deeply for any signs of trickery. I pouted at him, feigning a grumpy expression. I had hoped he would laugh or at least smile, though it now appeared to me that he only did that whilst intoxicated. My punch seemed to have awoken him out of his drunken state.

Now he ran a gloved hand through his slicked back hair, ensuring it was still in place.

"Scandinavian," he muttered after a while, not making eye contact with me.

I put one finger against my lips, "Hmm, let's see: Axel? No, you're shaking your head. Aron? Gustave?"

He squinted at the name Gustave. I mentally stored that information and reminded myself to refer to that if I did not find luck with other names.

"How about Erikson? Or plain Erik?"

He attempted to maintain a nonplussed expression as I said those names, though I could see straight through his ignorant façade.

"Ah, so it is Erik or Erikson – fascinating. You made this far too easy."

"Why do you know Scandinavian names?" He questioned, ignoring my previous words.

I looked down sadly, "I had a lot of free time on my hands back home."

He nodded, as if he understood. I wanted to shout at him then, to tell him that he could not possibly understand the life I had led. Sure, he had a deformity on his face, but what he failed to understand was that I had a deformity too. Inside I was distorted beyond compare.

I understood that it may not compare to being ridiculed because of something society didn't deem worthy enough in your appearance, but I had had my fair share ridiculing, reprimanding and abuse.

In any case, I did not want this man to make me share my secrets. Something about his persona drew me in, causing me to feel that uncomfortable powerless feeling that I detested.

"Should you not be leaving?"

He was shocked by my suggestion, almost as though he thought I was the one that had trespassed. Had he assumed I would allow him to stay with me for longer than necessary?

"Excuse me?"

"You have wasted enough of my time with your arrogance and I have not forgiven you for the incident on the roof. Do not think I have forgotten."

He stood to his feet and took the towel and the two bottles. He backed into the corner and watched me carefully for a moment.

"Do you like flowers?"

I almost laughed out loud at the she absurdity of his question. So now he had decided to engage me in charming small talk?

"No, I detest them."

I saw a hint of a smile in his eyes, "And reading? Do you enjoy it?"

"Very much so," I answered truthfully.

"But writing is your passion." He declared with a sense of finality.

I nodded, unsure of his intentions. What had brought on these unexpected questions? "Why do you ask?"

"I fear that an apology will not be enough to get me into your good graces."

"You wish to be in my good graces?" I narrowed my eyes in disgust.

He snorted rudely, "Not particularly, no. I found myself at a loss of how else to answer.

I waved my hand in dismissal at his pathetic excuse.

"Of course, goodbye now, Phantom, Erikson, Monsieur."

I laid back down, at last relieving my ankle of the piercing pain. I saw the Phantom linger in the corner, meeting my gaze with a glare. I raised my eyebrows as if to say 'what?' in retaliation to his look.

"Close your eyes."

"So you can murder me? Oh yes, definitely." I muttered sarcastically, bringing the coverlet up to my chin.

I was far too tired to argue with the fool any longer, so I obliged and found that I was able to give into sleep at last.

* * *

When I opened my eyes next it was dark outside. With the dark came an icy chill. Something cold had been placed on my head.

Disorientated by both my still fuzzy sleepy mind and the fact that a foreign object was on my face. I lifted it and in the pale moonlight I could make out its rectangular shape. The leather-bound object (I could tell it was leather, as the smell was identifiable) had sheets of white paper inside of it – at least 500 sheets too!

With a shake of my head and a roll of my eyes, I realised I had no doubts of who had put it there.

* * *

**Thank you again to RedDeathLvr for reviewing and also to InfinitelyBoredForTheMoment, Maggie1990 and PhantomMulan for favouriting/following. Your support is very helpful to me. Perhaps in a review you could tell me what you'd like to see, what you like, don't like etc. Thank you!**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

During the next few weeks a large amount of people came to the diva's room to ensure my recovery were speedy. I found myself constantly confused by the attention, as just over a fortnight ago they were showering me with verbal abuse. Smiling, I remembered that _unfortunate _incident which left Murielle assuming I needed help.

I had yet to hear from her, though I knew that she visited the Opera for rehearsals. Apparently she was refusing to sleep here – I secretly hoped that it was because she feared my angry outbursts, however unlikely that may be.

I soon found myself disliking the ballet rats and chorus members that visited me. I disliked them more than I thought humanly possible.

One young girl (I didn't recall her exact age as I hadn't bothered to inquire) seemed constantly insistent on visiting me. She brought me clean clothes, drew my baths and ensured I always had a healthy supply of treats. I found her quite amusing and liked her far more than the other pesky brats that bothered me during the day.

Daresay I was even coming to care for the child. However, if that were the case, it would only be because I found it necessary to connect with the younger generation, as I soon would have to tolerate the twenty four hour presence of a child.

By now I supposed I was approximately three months pregnant now and my stomach was certainly bulging out at a far more prominent degree. As it became more and more clear I could no longer lie to myself, I began to feel frightened.

So many 'what ifs' began to flood my mind and, whilst observing the young girl, I realised that I would most likely not be a very good mother. I recall once promising myself that I would always strive to become a better mother than my own, though now the thought seemed most ridiculous. I knew nothing about being a mother and there was no one I could turn to.

_Yes there is, _a voice urged in my mind, _Deschamps seems to know everything about anything. Why not ask her? _

I almost laughed at the thought; I was far too proud to open up to Deschamps about such things, let alone seek her help.

I burrowed myself into the silken quilt and tried to think of other things. At that exact moment, someone knocked lightly on my door.

"Come in," I croaked, feigning weakness. I came to the conclusion that if I appeared to be ill, I would be excused from work for longer.

Madame Deschamps assumed I had gone through a spell of mild pneumonia, though somehow I didn't think that probable. Perhaps she was trying to keep me out of her way and the only way to ensure I could not bother her would be to order me to rest. I smirked at just how much that was more believable.

Looking up, I saw the young girl skip in with a tray of food and a sharpened pencil. I smiled, remembering that she had asked if there was anything I desperately needed. I had told her a simple pencil would suffice.

I then turned my gaze to the notebook _he_ had gotten me and rapidly looked away in horror. No doubt he bought that for me so I had some reason to need to repay him. I dreaded to think what he would have me do.

"Hello, Mademoiselle Baudin," she smiled sweetly. "I brought you some sweet pastries and the pencil you asked for."

She set down the tray and opened my door, bending to pick something up from the ground. "These were also left outside your door."

She re-entered holding a vase of garish looking yellow flowers. I turned my nose up in disgust and held me hand out to receive the flowers.

A dreadfully artificial smell of floral perfume filled my nostrils as I examined the flowers, searching for a card. I quickly discovered what I was looking for and opened it, carefully reading over the letter.

"What does it say?" She inquired.

I cleared my throat.

"'I hope that you will soon be in good health. I am not pleased that you have been slacking off and avoiding your duties.

Do not become any more of a disgrace, child, as I do not wish you to be sent home.

Signed,

Your Father.'"

The child frowned, "He does not sound kind at all. Nor does he sound sincere in his hopes for your health."

"He is not kind," I muttered.

I glanced at her, realising I had yet to thank her or even ask her name. For once, my manners disgusted me.

"Forgive me, but would you be so kind as to tell me your name?"

She grinned at that and briskly skipped over to kneel in front of me, playing with the silk that hung over the divan. I returned her smile anxiously.

"Maria," she chirped. "My name is Maria."

"I am Bernadette; it is wonderful to make your acquaintance properly, Maria." I paused, "Do you live here?"

"Yes, do you?"

I knew that she was aware of the answer already and chose to return the question in order to seem polite.

"I do. Are you a dancer?" I asked, watching as she furrowed her eyebrows at a loose thread.

"Mhm," said she, in the affirmative.

"Would you like to sit?"

She looked at me then and nodded vigorously. I tucked my legs into my chest as I sat up, clearing a space for Maria. She sat beside me and faced me as I took one of her lily white hands in my own and met her crystal blue eyes. She smiled, awaiting my next words.

She always seemed to be smiling. She knew next to nothing about me and still she smiled. I wondered how someone could constantly be so gleeful.

It seemed that when you are young, you needn't worry about what lies in store in your life. You are always quite content with playing and messing around. I missed being a child. Oh, how simple life was back then.

"I would like to thank you for your help, Maria. I really do appreciate it and -"

I stopped when I realised she wasn't paying attention to me. Instead, she had picked up my notepad and was flicking through the empty pages. I was about to reprimand her for her rudeness when she lifted her gaze to mine once again, her eyes full of wonder.

I smiled at her and she smiled back. In fact, I wasn't sure the smile had even left her lips.

"You like to write." This was an observation, not a question.

I nodded.

"The pages are empty."

She tilted her head to the side, clearly not understanding what I meant. As I watched her flick through the pages, I felt for once that I was not alone in my love for a nice new notebook. Even if she was not a writer, she seemed to appreciate the crisp white paper and leather bound cover.

I flinched, breaking out of my daze, when she screamed and held up her blood-covered finger. The sight made me stop in my tracks as I watched it flow from her finger. I briefly looked towards the spot on the floor where _his _blood had spilled and remembered I was the reason for it.

I was also to blame for the little girl crying beside me.

It was her wavering whimpers which finally caused me to snap out of my torture and I led her to the sink, instructing her to hold her finger over it whilst I cleaned it. I didn't want any more blood to cover my floors.

I reached for the first aid box – it was tucked rather efficiently at the top of the wardrobe – and fished out an antiseptic wipe. I clotted the blood with a handkerchief and then wiped it over. She had now stopped crying and had started looking at me with an expression in her eyes which I could not place.

I smiled at her slightly and pressed a light kiss on the finger which had been cut by the paper. She giggled as her eyes filled up with more tears.

Then, without me being fully prepared, she wrapped her arms around me, pressing her heart shaped face into my minutely swollen stomach. I felt her tears go through the thin material of my shirt as I hesitantly cradled her head and pressed her closer to me.

After a while, my awkward feelings vanished and I lost myself in her embrace. All too soon she pulled away and stared up at me with childlike wonder. My eyebrows furrowed as I searched for any sign of joking, as her eyes were almost filled with love. I wasn't prepared for the feeling of mutual liking we now shared.

"Do you miss your mother?" She asked, still clinging to my neck.

"I do not." I lied.

"I miss mine. How can you not miss her? I miss my mother's hugs and her smiles. She was so beautiful when she smiled."

"Where is she?" I asked, tucking a lose hair behind her ear.

"With my father," she pointed upwards, "Playing in the clouds."

"Well, I bet she smiles more than ever before up there."

She nodded at this and we sat down once again. This time, I was sat with my legs forward and ankles crossed with Maria's thigh touching mine.

I thought back to what she said about her mother's smile. My mother, too, was exceptionally beautiful when she smiled. In fact, my mother was always beautiful. I could not find one single flaw on her body. It was just her actions which made her ugly sometimes. What was the point in having a beautiful face but an ugly inside?

Maria's mother probably smiled because of her lovely daughter. My mother smiled when I was safely out of sight and out of mind. She always regarded me with a pained expression – I had soon learnt to accept this as the only way she would look at me.

Despite all this I missed her. I missed everything about her apart from the way she disdained me.

"Is your mother unkind like your father?"

I looked at her, my expression sombre, "My mother isn't an unkind woman. She is simply lovely and caring to everyone."

She tilted her head, which I took to be her way of expressing confusion.

"Then why do you not miss her?"

I let out a humourless peal of laughter, ignoring the tears which threatened to spill from my eyes.

"Because it is selfish of me to miss being in her company."

"But why?"

"She was not happy around me. I deprived her of the happiness she so deserves for nineteen years of her life. She smiled when she wasn't around me, and it was beautiful. She is beautiful. Her eyes so wistful and warm, the deepest honey brown. Her hair felt just like this silk – so did her skin. She smelt constantly as though she had been bathing in the most pungent flowers."

The tears were flowing freely now and I vaguely registered her hand clasping mine once again. I wiped vigorously at my eyes and mentally cursed them for their betrayal. What a state I must have looked! Crying as though I were a child. This was incredibly out of character for me and I prayed that no one else ever had to experience my momentary weakness.

"Bernadette?"

"Yes?" I whispered as she leant her head on my shoulder.

"You will be a good mother one day."

I looked down at her and saw her eyes were closed. I hoped she hadn't fallen asleep, as I did not want to be blamed for her tardiness when the time for going to rehearsals started.

"What makes you say that?"

"You are selfless, Bernadette. You sacrificed your own happiness for another's and that is what mothers do every day. In some ways I wish my mother could have been a bit more like you. Do you think I could have two mothers?"

She stared at me expectantly, though I could not reply immediately. I had called myself many things but selfless had never been one of them. I could not believe that someone so young could say something so insightful and moving.

Suddenly I felt the need to get away from the child. I didn't want to get attached to anyone here, let alone an overly smart child. I stood on my feet and pulled her with me, taking her to the door.

"I think your only mother can be the one which gave you life. Thank you for your company and… intuitive opinion."

I looked back and saw the cursed notepad still in its position on the floor. I rushed over, picked it up and deposited it safely into Maria's hands.

"Take this, please. Burn it, keep it, throw it off of the roof, I care not. Goodbye Maria."

I had her out of the room and the door halfway shut when I heard her again.

"Wait! Will I see you again? Is there anything you would like?"

"No, thank you. I'll see if I feel up to a visit and I will tell you."

I had the door shut as I slid to my knees, clutching my stomach and weeping once again.

* * *

It must have been days before anyone visited me next. I had stayed in the same position, barely registering the passing of night to day as I stared at the spot of blood that gave me a constant reminder of my violent actions.

I remembered the crunch of his nose under my fist as our skin came into contact. It felt _good. _I watched the flow of blood from his nose with such satisfaction that I felt I could happily die right then and there.

As I washed my hands of his blood it seemed as though I could never get it off completely. My hands still felt caked in it and I was disgusted.

Thankfully (cursedly) Deschamps chose that time to burst through my door. She took in my paralysed state and quietly locked the door, coming to crouch in front of me. In her hand was an envelope, most likely containing a letter.

She did not speak, nor did I, she only handed me the letter. Curiously, I began opening it and noticed the word 'Elizabeth' on the front. Why was Deschamps having me read her letters?

I unwound the letter and straightened out the paper.

It read,

"_Madame Deschamps,_

_ It has recently come to my attention that Mademoiselle Bernadette Baudin seems to be with child. I know that you, too, have noticed the signs and urge you not to send her away. I realise her father would certainly not take her in and she would be discarded onto the streets._

_I also ask that you will not inform her of this letter and only inform her that you know about the child. I understand that you probably will not listen to this command, dearest Liza. In any case she will undoubtedly need medical care as soon as possible. Please arrange this soon._

_The child should be able to stay here- I will stand for no less. Even I could not watch a woman and baby be forced onto the streets with nothing but the rags on their bodies. Do everything in your power. _

_Kind regards,_

_OG."_

I was quiet for a few moments, dreading the time I would actually have to converse with Deschamps. It amused me that she had completely ignored his wishes to not show me the letter, just like he guessed she would.

I felt betrayed, even though in some ways he had done this for my benefit. In any case, this was not his secret to tell.

"Bernadette, please know that I understand what you are feeling right now. You will not be sent away, I promise you. _He_ would definitely have something to say about that."

I didn't reply, stubbornly staring at my lap. I flinched when she covered my hand with her own. This was the most affectionate I had ever seen her.

"When we first met, what did I say to you?" She asked.

I still did not reply, simply shrugging my shoulders in response. How did she expect me to remember that far back?

"I told you that I would not ask you about your past. I will hold myself to that promise. I do hope that one day you can trust me enough to open up to me. That way I can help you."

I looked up at her bleakly, speaking quiet as a mouse, "I trust no one."

I spoke sternly and seriously so she could be sure that I meant what I said. _I trust no one, especially not you, _I added spitefully in my mind.

She nodded remorsefully, "I understand that. You will not get very far in life with that mind-set."

"You understand, you understand, you understand, you understand! You keep saying that but you don't understand! You know nothing of what I have been through! Leave, please."

"I will send a doctor to visit you in the morning. He will determine whether or not you are fit to return to work. Goodnight, Bernadette."

I didn't look up at her. I wished never to look at anyone again.

I sat and let quiet tears fall down my cheeks. Now, there was no pretending. I much preferred it when everyone was oblivious to my existent. I longed for the days of being alone in my father's large mansion.

Why couldn't anyone comprehend the fact that I wished to be alone? I wished to be able to live my pitiful existence in the quiet company of myself.

I never pried, I never provided unwanted attention, and I was never annoying. Being alone forever would be blissful. Loneliness was something I had quickly become accustomed to in my life.

Behind me there was a quiet click. I pretended not to notice and resumed my ridiculous sobbing. I cared not whether anyone saw or heard me now.

I felt a presence in front of me but didn't look up. I knew who it was, of course. Who else felt as though he could barge into my room at any time?

"You betrayed me," I was the first to speak. I slowly opened my eyes and met his fiery gaze.

"You burnt my gift." He retorted.

"You backed the reason why I refuse to trust," I said through my teeth.

"You punched me," he chuckled, "I did it for your own good. You should be thankful."

"Well, _Phantom,_ I am not grateful. That secret was not yours to tell!"

I was shouting at him now, not caring that someone could hear. His face remained calm and poised as he sat facing me on the floor. I had the urge to plant a kick in his stomach, but refrained. His arrogance made me sick to my stomach.

"Do quieten down, dearest," said he, examining his gloves in a nonchalant manner.

I very nearly punched him again, then and there. However as I opened my mouth, a shooting pain went through my stomach. I yelled out, hunching over and used his firm should for support. I held on tightly, using him as a way to let out my pain rather than screaming.

Whilst I suffered he sat still with a horrified look on his face – at least on the visible side. I could not tell whether he was disturbed by the physical contact or by my sudden outburst. Nonetheless, he sat still as stone until the pain dulled.

Panting, I let go of his shoulder and slumped onto the divan, watching as his stern gaze met mine. In that particular moment, he reminded me very much of Madame Deschamps. They both had a love for schooling me with their severe eyes.

"I did warn you." He stated.

"You did not!" I exclaimed, wincing as even that set off the pain.

He fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the spot which I had grasped. Smirking I trailed my hand along a vaster space of his arm. Giving me and incredulous look, he wiped again. I had no desire to annoy him further, so I lay back down.

"You childlike mannerisms are becoming bothersome, _Bernadette,"_ he snapped.

There it was, once again, that venomous way he seemed to favour when saying my name. I huffed and rolled my eyes away from him. At that point in time, I could not be bothered to respond to his chiding.

"How old did you say you were?" He asked.

"Nineteen," I replied quietly.

I heard a shuffle of clothing – which must have been him standing to his feet – before he was directly in front of me. I did not look up at his lean form leering over me, preferring to shut my eyes. I hummed a single note to myself in an attempt to block out the sound of his heavy breathing.

Then, he laid his gloved palm on the top of my head. I could smell the leather; its scent was pungent in my nose. I flinched away from him, though his hand seemed to hold me firmly in place. His face was not close to me, though I could feel and smell his breath as it ghosted over my eyes. I did not smell wine, (which was a great relief, as our last encounter, when he was intoxicated, was not pleasant) instead I smelt that fruity scent from our first meeting.

I very nearly laughed, as it seemed overly amusing to me that a very dangerous man stood over me, wishing to do God knows what and I was only interested in the smell of his breath.

He smoothed down my hair slightly and I nearly told him he was fighting a losing battle. My hair was incredibly stubborn and unruly and proved to be extremely trying on my nerves when I wished to tie it back.

Deschamps often reprimanded me for having it down all of the time and I quickly offered for her to try to tame it. Being the proud woman she was, she met my offer and found my hair was too difficult for even _her_ to tame. I smiled teasingly at her, feeling pleased that I had yet again proved her wrong.

After what I assumed was just over a minute, he leaned back, his hand now lingering on my shoulder.

He cleared his throat, "You must not exert yourself, Mademoiselle. It is bad for both yours and the foetus' health."

"Why do you care?" I snapped, regretting it slightly as his face fell.

He sat on the edge of the divan, as far from me as possible, and sighed. He turned his suddenly sad eyes towards me, briefly passing over my stomach.

"I am not a heartless man," he said feebly.

"Do you truly expect me to believe that? Did you tell the victims of your murders that you have a heart whilst you watched their lives drain from their eyes?"

He slammed his fist down onto the divan and sprung to his feet, shooting to the darkest corner of the room with implausible speed. I did not regret my words this time, as I truly was disgusted by his blindness.

I continued, "What man with a heart kills for pleasure?"

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe my kills were to protect another?" His voice was quiet – pained, even. I thought by now he would be yelling at me.

"Killing innocent men to keep them away from your precious Christine does not count as protecting!" I screeched, sitting bolt upright now.

This remark set him off, and I watched in horror as he punched a perfectly sculpted hole into the wall. If it hurt him, he didn't show it as he stormed towards me. I thought he would surely hit me as he bent down to my level.

"Hold your tongue, vile woman! Not all of the men I punished had something to do with _Christine." _

He spoke her name as he frequently said mine: with hatred and disgust. For some reason, this brought me great joy.

"Oh, that makes it better, does it? You are a killer!"

He looked down and backed away, languidly drifting to some place behind me. I daren't look back, as I recalled him once telling me to turn away as he was leaving. I obeyed him this time, like the other, since I recognised the fact that I may have upset him. I considered this my apology, as I would definitely not apologise verbally.

I hear an almost silent click.

Then, silence.

As I lay back down, I feel his hand on my head again. I open my eyes and see he is not there and that the memory of his touch had already come to haunt me.

"Do rest up," I hear his voice directly in front of me, "Despite what you may think of me I would hate to be the reason for an unborn child's death."

I make no sound or movement which says I acknowledged his request, though I know he hears. After all, the Phantom of the Opera has eyes and ears everywhere.

Later, I wake feeling his hand on me again. I draw a bath and scrub at my skin ferociously in an attempt to eradicate the sensation of his leather clad hands. It does not work.

* * *

**Another chapter! I have to say, I had so much fun writing this. I have a different story in the works, separate to this one. I hope to get it up soon, I just have to finish writing it up. **

**I'd like to thank michellecarriveau for reviewing. Welcome aboard! I'm thrilled that you enjoyed the chapter and welcome to the site!**

**Thanks for your support and your reviews (though a few more reviews would be much appreciated) and I hope you have enjoyed this chapter.**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"Disrobe please, Mademoiselle."

I stared at the lithe man with my mouth gaping open, a flabbergasted expression gracing my usually nonchalant face. To ensure I heard him right, I decided to speak up.

"Pardon me, Monsieur, but am I correct in thinking I heard you ask me to disrobe?" I asked frailly.

He glanced at me apologetically, "I am not asking you to go completely bare, as that would be highly uncouth of me. However, to examine you correctly I will need to have access to areas that I cannot reach, within the confines of your dress. Down to your underclothes, if you'd please."

I glanced at Deschamps; feeling slightly reassured that she was also in the room to observe the doctor. No doubt the Phantom was also hiding somewhere, watching my every move. I was not overjoyed knowing he would be there. Whilst he proved to be very strong and could save me, the poor damsel, from the doctor's wandering hands; I dreaded the thought of him seeing me wearing only my underclothing.

I had known I would be visited by a medic at some point, though never in my right mind had I imagined the visit would be a day after our discussion.

Deschamps arrived at my room at a preposterous hour with the doctor trailing behind her. They had a posy of ballet rats trailing behind them and they all stopped outside my door, peeking past the threshold and proving their notoriously nosy ways. No doubt the majority of them (God forbid they were _all _brain dead) had realised what my problem was.

I knew most of them thought I belonged in a harem, so they must have put the puzzle pieces together by now.

I tried to persuade Deschamps to come back at a later time, as certain events from the night before had prevented me from getting proper rest. She shook her head, said "Nonsense" and let herself in. The doctor, Gaston Yon, looked as though he would have much preferred to be somewhere else.

I felt for the poor man, wishing to aid his discomfort as much as I could. So after much mental deliberation, I took off my dress, standing proudly in my chemise. He then instructed me to lie down and relax. I closed my eyes as soon as I saw the first of his instruments.

"Will the rabbit test be more reliable than this, Monsieur?" Asked Deschamps.

"Madame, I assure you, the cervix test is quite sufficient. However, if it would ease your worries, I would be most obliged to try that test too…" he trailed off and I felt him prod me with gloved hands.

"What is the rabbit test?" I inquired, feeling suddenly anxious, "Why must there be animals involved?"

"Do not panic yourself, Bernadette. Think of the baby." Urged Deschamps as she reached over to pat my hand.

I flinched and moved away, not appreciating the talk of rabbits.

"We don't even know if there _is_ a baby, so until then I will panic as much as I wish."

After a few more minutes of discomfort and touching in delicate areas, Monsieur Yon sat back with a sigh and disposed of his gloves. Then he turned to me with a soothing look and smiled slightly. Madame Deschamps was helping me dress again and he politely turned away, waiting until the sounds of ruffling clothing halted.

"You are indeed with child."

I stood still for a few moments, blinking rapidly. It made no sense that I had now gone into shock, when I already had a trustworthy instinct that my theories were true. Now, I sat on the divan and stared at the floor.

Monsieur Yon then listed the things I should eat, shouldn't eat and any preparations I should make for when the child decides to make an appearance. I stared at him with cloudy, unseeing eyes. He vanished before me and all I could see was the disapproving gaze of my father.

"Would it be acceptable for her to begin working again?" I heard Deschamps probe. Of course that is what she would be thinking of.

The doctor seemed to ponder for a moment, a single finger resting on his lips. His eyes widened as he came to a conclusion, an air of intelligence surrounding him.

"Tomorrow she may start working again. Nothing too strenuous, mind you. I would advise that she takes the time now to walk around and socialise. If she makes friends, she will be happy, meaning the foetus will also be happy. Good day to you both."

He tipped his hat and briskly exited the room.

"Come, come, Bernadette. He is right; you do need to socialise."

I nodded mutely and followed her as she led me out of my room, a concentrated frown on my face. I stared blindly at a point on the back of her head as she walked rapidly towards the stage. I could hear to tuning of instruments already and was excited, despite my current state, to sit in on a rehearsal.

Instead of leading me to the seats, Madame Deschamps walked over to the ballet rats. I glared at each of them in turn, though softened my gaze as my eyes met Maria's. She smiled keenly and waved her plump little fingers.

I watched as Maria got on her tiptoes and leaned towards the ear of the girl beside her, whispering something and pointing to me. The girl was around my height and age, with blue-black hair, cascading down her back. We made eye contact, blue meeting brown, and silently nodded respectfully at one another.

Deschamps came to a halt and turned to me, "I want you to watch them rehearse and tell me if any of them do not point their feet, stand straight or smile. Smiling is key, Bernadette."

I nodded, "Where will you be?"

"I have…business to attend to. Girls," she called, clapping her hands together, "This is Bernadette. She is in charge and she will know if any of you do not perform flawlessly. Introduce yourselves, and then rehearse what we learnt yesterday."

A chorus of "yes Madame"s sounded as Deschamps put her hands on her hips, nodded and hurriedly walked away, in the direction of the backstage area. The ballet rats and I were stood to the far left of the stage, with the actors and chorus members on the right, also rehearsing.

I scanned the group of singers and made contact with Murielle, who was talking to the conductor. I continued watching her until she finished her conversation, quickly looking away when she met my gaze. I couldn't tell whether or not what I was feeling could be classed as regret or annoyance that she was managing to still be so _nice _to me. She looked at me as though nothing had happened – which annoyed me to no end.

I yelled at her because I wanted her to despise me; however it seemed like she liked me enough to look beside that. Ah yes, she still wanted me to open up to her. I very nearly snorted at that thought, but managed to stop myself as I looked to the expectant dancers in front of me.

"Hello," I said, waving awkwardly.

One particular girl rolled her eyes, examining her neat nails.

"Is there a problem?" I asked, arching a single eyebrow, "What's your name, Mademoiselle?"

"Océane Toulouse," she stuck her nose in the air, "Prima ballerina."

"Well, little miss high and mighty; I would appreciate if you would treat me with respect, like Madame Deschamps instructed you to do."

Maria let out a peal of laughter and stood by my side with her hands on her hips. The girl with the black hair followed, smirking at Océane. I watched as the Prima ballerina cowered away.

I had to admit, I loved having this newfound power over girls – some of which were my own age.

I decided it would be best if I knew the rest of the girl's names: "So, would you all like to introduce yourselves before you begin?"

None of the girls seemed to want to go first, so I turned to Maria with pleading eyes. In all honesty, I did not expect her to really want to talk to me after how nasty I was yesterday, but apparently she was just as forgiving as Murielle.

"I am Maria Aide, but you already knew that," she turned to the girl beside her and held her hand, "This is Victoire Orand."

I tilted my head to the side, "Can Victoire not speak for herself?"

I meant it as a light-hearted joke, though as a chorus of outraged gasps followed my question, I knew I had made a vital mistake.

"You can't say that!" Exclaimed one girl.

"Oh goodness, Victoire I am so sorry," said a couple more girls.

"Would someone kindly explain to me where exactly I went wrong?" I asked, suddenly feeling extremely nervous.

Maria put a comforting arm around Victoire and me, shooting a disapproving look at the fussing girls. If the situation had been any different, I would have laughed at how intimidating she was attempting to look.

She turned her eyes on me, softening them slightly, "Victoire doesn't like to talk to anyone except me."

I nodded in understanding, "So she is selectively mute? I am very sorry, Victoire."

For once, I was able to portray truthful sincerity, as I really was quite sorry. Victoire did not look too bothered and happily grinned at me. With reluctance, I smiled back, showing less glee.

"That's enough excitement for one day – now it's time for practice. Show me what you can do."

I walked towards the conductor and asked if he would play the ballet. I didn't actually know which scene the ballet was, and hoped he understood which one I meant.

I watched disinterestedly as the girls rehearsed their routine flawlessly. I was not drawn to Océane; – despite her being the Prima and having a separate routine to the others – rather it was Victoire who caught my eye. The emotion she seemed to be reluctant to let out through speech was transferred into her dance.

Through her face I saw all of the emotion the beautiful music was trying to get across the audience. Each movement flowed with such intricacy and precision that I almost felt moved to tears. I made a mental note to inform Deschamps of my discovery, in case she hadn't already noticed.

(Secretly, I just wanted Victoire to be pushed higher up in the ranks so that Océane would be moved down.)

As they were dancing, I heard the tap of heeled shoes grow louder in volume as a highly perfumed presence stood beside me. I knew who it was without having to look, yet I still turned my head to see.

"Murielle," I nodded curtly, suddenly feeling a gnawing urge to bite my finger nails.

"I would like to apologise to you," she bit her lip, "though I would wish you would stop being so formal!"

I tried to keep a straight face, but broke under the raised eyebrows and wagging finger Murielle was supplying me with. I laughed with such force that I had to clutch my stomach and blink away the tears from my eyes. Murielle laughed too, placing a hand on my shoulder to support her in her humorous state. In any other situation, I would have shaken her off. Somehow, I refrained.

"Does this mean my apology is accepted?"

"Of course, if you'll accept mine. I realise that you were just trying to help me-" I began.

"No, no, it was not my place to snoop. I shouldn't have made you feel under pressure like I did." Murielle lowered her gaze to the ground, miserable tears growing in her eyes.

"Murielle, do not weep at my expense," I lifted her chin up, "Let us not dwell on this any longer."

She nodded, "After rehearsals will you accompany me to my dressing room? I believe there are a few things we must talk about."

I frowned, hoping she was not referring to what I thought she was referring to. Deschamps wouldn't have told her… would she? I was going to voice my queries when someone else pulled up in front of me.

_Speak of the devil, _I thought, staring up at Deschamps with an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Murielle is right; there are a few things the pair of you must discuss."

Her stare in that moment was so intense, almost as if she was trying to control me and tell me that I must discuss my predicament with Murielle. I swallowed as I looked between the pair as they shared a knowing look. I disliked the fact that they both knew something about me that I didn't know – meaning they had been discussing me – and a glare soured my previously gleeful expression.

Sensing my anger, the pair shifted their weight from one foot to another, avoiding eye-contact as if it were some kind of infection. I took a deep breath to clear my head of any resentment I had been feeling, and opened my eyes, meeting Deschamps' gaze.

"Madame, I would kindly request that you pay special attention to," I paused, remembering the name, "Mademoiselle Orand's dance. She truly is sublime. May I be excused?"

Madame Deschamps seemed startled by my sudden change in mood. I watched as she and Murielle exchanged yet another glance; Deschamps was trying to tell Murielle something, but Murielle seemed hopelessly confused by the exchange.

I took Murielle's hand and began leading her way. Deschamps grabbed hold of my wrist, bringing us both to a halt. I closed my eyes at the feeling of restraint which brought back traumatic memories. Catching myself, I snatch my wrist away and turn to her with venomous eyes.

"Thank you for your help, Bernadette." She stared at me with bewildered eyes – for once she changes the harsh expression she usually embodies!

I rolled my eyes and dragged Murielle along behind me, careful to hold her hand rather than her wrist. I duly noted the dull throb in the wrist Deschamps had clasped hold of. I stared down at it, tracing the pale, ring shaped scar from what seemed like years ago. Sometimes, it burned as another being placed their hands on it.

However, I was sure the pain was a subconscious thing and I was not really feeling it. The trauma had decided to make itself apparent in the form a burning scar. It embarrassed me, so I made sure to cover it with a bracelet. . .

I let out a gasp as I dropped Murielle's hand like a limp doll. I studied my whole arm to ensure the bracelet was in place and it wasn't.

"We have to go back!" I exclaimed as I retraced my footsteps. "Murielle! It's gone! We have to go!"

"Bernadette, slow down," she panted, jogging to keep up with my frantic steps.

I realised that I was quite a bit taller than her; therefore I had longer legs than her. I slowed down until she caught up with me, only to once again commence my long footsteps once again.

"What have you lost?" She asks, jogging until she is in step with me.

"My bracelet. It was my mother's," I reply, slowing down and leaning on the corridor's wall.

Then, before Murielle can reply, I hear running. I look up and see a young man come closer and closer to our tired forms. I see something shiny in his hand. I grin, though my smile is short-lived when I see his face.

I knew that face; how ever could I forget such a face? I fell to a heap on the ground, gasping for air. Before Murielle can react, I jump to my feet and sprint away. I can hear her desperate calls and pleas to turn back – I suppose her shoes are not made for such sprinting – mingling with those of the young man's. He is running, chasing me and there is nowhere I can go to escape.

As I run my lungs feel as though they are ready to explode from my chest and the lack of oxygen is making me dizzy. Despite knowing this running cannot be good for the baby, (this theory is proved by the familiar pain in my lower stomach) I decide to endure the pain and possible harm.

If I stopped running, he would somehow find me. He would take me and tie me up and beat me until I finally craved, submitting to his wanton advances. Just like that night, not so long ago.

Coming to think of it, the man looked far too young to be the same man that had his way with me. His face was youthful, boyish even and not at all like the middle-aged friend of my father's. I do not have much time to ponder the differences to myself, as I am swiftly grabbed around the waist and dragged into a crevice inside… inside the wall.

The doorway I was pulled into closes in front of me, and I hear the scratching of a match. Almost as soon as I was submerged into darkness, two candles are lit. I was standing inside a wall – in a corridor not really any different to the ones I had been running in – and it was cold. Not cold enough for me to tremble, but enough for me to shiver once.

As I shiver I look at my feet, barely noticing the slime I am standing in, and see they are not alone. Another pair of polished leather boots stands opposite mine. I look up, yelping at the close proximity myself and my captor found ourselves in.

I pushed the Phantom backwards, hard enough to make him lose his footing and fall on the wall behind him. I hear his laugh as I cover my chest with my arms.

"Must you always creep up on me? Do you intend for me to have a heart attack?" I ask searching his eyes, which were now void of humour.

"It was not my intention to frighten you. However, I noticed you were running – you really shouldn't have been running, by the way – and decided to aid you. Why were you running? Are you alright?"

He voiced his concern as I doubled over, clutching my stomach. I held a hand up as he tried to put an arm around me. The last thing I needed was to be comforted by a man – much less by _him. _

"He's here, he's found me. I knew he would, it was only a matter of time." I mumble incoherently.

"Whom?"

"Him, Phantom, _him_! Though, he looks far younger than I remember. Perhaps it is his son…oh what an awful father that poor boy has! I wonder if he knows-"

I am cut off as the Phantom grasps hold of my shoulders, shaking me gently. My head wobbled on my shoulders and in the moment I felt as though I was a puppet being controlled by him. I looked at him and silenced myself, as I expected that was what he wanted.

"Calm down, Mademoiselle. Now tell me: is he, by any chance, your child's father?"

My gaze grew cold again as I turned my glare on him. All of a sudden, I felt myself shaking. I clasped the hands which were on my shoulders, digging my nails into the back of them. No doubt if he hadn't been wearing gloves, my grip would have drawn blood.

"He is not the father! He will never be the father – never! I would much rather the likes of you to be his father instead of that vile excuse for a man!" I shriek, shaking vigorously still.

My comment seems to hit a nerve briefly, as I see something flicker in his eye and his grip slackens, before tightening on my shoulder more forcefully.

"Biologically speaking, Bernadette!"

I take a calming breath, though it doesn't work, "In the case, yes. Is there anywhere we can sit, Phantom?"

As I said his 'name', I found myself even more annoyed and flustered, causing my breathing to become even more erratic.

He takes a candle and leads me further down the passageway. We seem to be walking for hours before we come to a stop. Somewhere between walking from the doorway and reaching our destination, our hands had intertwined. I let go quickly and took to ringing my hands through, in an attempt to make the sensation of my hand in his vanish.

He blows out the candle and runs his fingers across the wall, stopping at a certain point only to nudge the seemingly sturdy wall with his shoulder. It gives a creak as it opens and I peered round, stunned to see the bedroom I first stayed in.

This slight surprise causes my breathing to increase again, my only emotion pure confusion. The Phantom notices and leads me into the room, sitting me on the bed.

"Inhale, Mademoiselle – yes that's right. Now: let it out. Keep doing that, please."

He coaches me through my breathing, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. I smile faintly at the change, much preferring his doctor-like attitude than his normal raging, abusive nature. Seeing the concern in his eyes, I am immediately overwhelmed with guilt as I remembered what I said about him earlier. Thinking of it now, I realized that if he was always like this he would not make that bad of a father.

"Thank you," I whisper after a while, for the first time smiling at him.

He blinks at me, twice to be precise, before one corner of his mouth twitches up. The slight smile is gone before it had time to fully progress.

"Erik," he muttered. I smirked, knowing full well what he was telling me.

"Sorry, what was that?" I cupped my ear in one palm and tilted my head.

"My name is Erik."

I gave a cheer and stood, jutting my hand out for him to shake. Instead of shaking it, he sits me back on the bed. In a way, I am grateful for not having to touch him again, as his touch makes me feel considerably uncomfortable. His touch is unforgettable.

I groan and put my head in my hands, thinking of Murielle and my bracelet.

"What is it?" He asked, crouching in front of me. He took extra care to crouch quite far from me.

"I abandoned Murielle and that man has my bracelet."

"Why do you so desperately need this bracelet? If I were you, I would have taken the bracelet and then started running."

I rolled my eyes, "Well I was kind of preoccupied with my fear, at that point in time. Why does it matter my reasons for wanting my bracelet? It is mine and therefore I want it."

He nods, gives a slight bow and swiftly exits. I sit in a bewildered state for a while as I stare at the now empty space in front of me. I do not have much time to question where Erik rushed off to, as a knock sounds at my door.

"Enter," I called as I smiled at the fact that I correctly guessed his name those weeks ago.

_He must trust you now, _said a voice in my head. I shake away the thought and look up to see Murielle run over and enclose me in a bone-crushing embrace. I pat her back awkwardly and pull her down beside me.

"Why on earth did you run?" She questioned, holding both of my hands loosely.

"He looks like someone I know. A horrible man, simply horrible." I lowered my gaze to our clasped hands.

Murielle lets go of one hand and traces the scar which rings around my entire wrist. She turns my arm, finding the scar on every inch of skin.

"The same man that gave you these," she murmured, to herself more than me. I do not nod in confirmation, knowing she already knows the answer.

We sit silently for a while and my hand absentmindedly moves to my stomach.

"What is the man's name?" I asked.

"Jean-Luc Mouzon. Why do you ask?"

I let out a peal of bitter laughter. The last name was the only validation I needed. It was not my captor; it was his son. No doubt now he would want to find me and question my frightened running. It must have offended him in some way, for I did not supply him with a reason for my departure.

"His son," is all I reply.

We sit silently again and I felt Murielle trail her eyes over my still flustered face. I can already sense her questions, though before she can give them a voice, I break the silence.

"How did you find me?" I do my best to smile at her, to reassure her I am not mad. Really, I am just terribly upset.

"Madame Deschamps received a letter – it fell from the heavens! It was from a man who calls himself the Phantom and he requested you be excused and I would be sent to keep you company. How exciting! The Phantom worries for you, Bernadette! That reminds me…"

She reached into the small back I had not noticed until then and pulled out my bracelet. I took it greedily and fastened it, mentally commending Erik for his fast work. I threw Murielle off guard as I wrapped my arms around her in a tight embrace.

It did not last long, as yet again she reminded me of my mother. The length did not seem to bother her, and she seemed quite satisfied that I had even initiated a cuddle in a first place.

I sensed she wanted to speak to me about what was on her mind now. I was prepared; my security blanket had returned.

Unknowingly I had already done what I previously said I would not: opened up to her. I told her of my captor and let her see one of the many scars. She didn't ask for any more than that, graciously accepting what little I would confide in her.

She met my eyes at last.

"I know you are with child, Bernie."

I had known it was coming. This must have been what she and Deschamps had spoken about.

"Madame Deschamps thought it best that I knew, as she knows we are friends. We are friends, are we not?"

I nodded in the affirmative, too afraid to speak. I knew if I opened my mouth I would say something terrible to her, but she was being so incredibly sweet and I didn't want to hurt her feelings.

"I can help you, my dearest, darling friend. Anything you need."

She spoke with such sincerity that I thought I would sob. No tears came as I smiled up at her, clearing my throat. As I was about to speak, all thoughts of what I wanted to say flew out of my mind, replaced with complete worry.

Murielle was married before she had children. She knew of my marital status, meaning she knew that I had children out of wedlock. I moved away from her quickly and put my head in my hands. What must she think of me?

Did she share the same opinion most of the ballet rats and singers had of me? Did she think of me only as a whore she felt sorry for?

I wanted to scream at her, tell her that I was not a harlot. The screams never came and my own calm voice shocked me.

"I am not a harlot."

She gasped, "Not for one moment did I ever begin to consider the possibility that you were! From what you have told me, I am guessing your conception was brought about by such horrible circumstances. Do you doubt me so, Bernadette?"

"No, no," I shook my heading, already regretting what I had said, "It was wrong of me to even begin to assume that. Forgive me, I was afraid."

She nods in understanding, "You needn't be afraid any longer."

A false smile graced my lips as I nodded, thanking her again. We moved the conversation to lighter subjects but all the while I thought of Jean-Luc's father. I knew that then, more than ever, I had every reason to be afraid.

He was coming for me and the seconds ticked by until he would get his prize.

* * *

**I always seem to write the longest chapters when Murielle makes an appearance. **

**Michellecarriveau: I love Bernadette too! Sometimes I don't think Erik can handle her.**

**Deanna37: Lovely to see a nice face in the reviews! And two reviews from you! If I was in that situation, I probably would have punched the Phantom too. I'm thrilled you like the story… More about the baby daddy should come soon.**

**Thank you for all the support.**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"Do you have any ideas for names?" Murielle asks.

She was sitting on the divan, intricately sewing onto a plump pillow and I was propped up on some pillows on the floor, a new notepad balancing on my knees. Up until now we had not spoken.

"No, I have not really thought about it, if I am honest," I replied truthfully, not fully engaging in the necessary eye contact needed to be completely engrossed in conversation.

True to my word, Maria had burnt my old notepad – Victoire, I had learnt, had a love for fire and was more than happy to supply Maria with the flames – and Erik, displeased with my actions, had given me a new one. This one, he said, would be less easy to dispose of. Even if I did find some way to get rid of it, I was sure he would simply give me another. As much as I disliked the man, I could not deny how generous and persistent he was.

"You must! Your child can't very well go without a name, now can she?"

Murielle seemed outraged by my lack of interest, though that was not what caused me to quirk an eyebrow at her.

"_She_?" I repeated.

She waved her hand at me (and I was quite worried the needle would slip out of her grip) as she let out a dismissive snort.

Then, turning her eyes to me, she said simply, "Gut instinct."

Comfortable silence surrounded us again and I went back to writing. I looked at the fountain pen in my hand in wonderment. This was yet another 'gift' from Erik; to me it was more of a burden to receive such fanciful things, as I could not repay him in a way I was willing.

I had been sitting in easy silence in my room and found that my pencil kept breaking. During that afternoon I had sharpened it to no end and by the time Erik arrived, the pencil was hardly a pencil it was so small! Rolling his eyes, Erik told me to wait a moment, before disappearing off to God knows where.

He returned and in his hand was a wooden box.

"Don't you dare," I had said, thinking it must have been jewellery. Even if I had known it was a pen, I most probably would have said the same.

His brow furrowed, "What?"

He had come closer to me now, eagerly holding the box out in the hopes that I would take it from him. I held a hand up, "I will not accept this, Erik. It is no secret that we dislike each other and I would very much appreciate if you didn't try to buy my affections with jewellery I will damned well not wear!"

He laughed.

"What in the world are you talking about, foolish girl? Stop your babbling – it is tiresome. I just thought that since your pencil is embarrassingly useless, you would most enjoy writing with something more…"

He trailed off, running his tongue along his teeth as he thought for the right word. In all honesty, I was shocked; Erik's vocabulary was vast. He always seemed to be shocking me with bright new words and languages he had come across. It seemed most unlike him to not be able to find the correct word to finish his sentence with.

Sensing his growing frustration, I piped up, "Dependable?"

"Yes, that will do, I suppose. Anyway, it is a fountain pen. You are welcome."

The corners of my mouth quirked at his unease. He obviously was not used to my apparently surprising knowledge. Perhaps he was still under the impression that I was perfectly fine with performing the usual ladylike etiquette and keeping to myself!

I opened the box and gasped. In my years, I had seen very little of fountain pens, as they were quite new to the Parisian area. My father had many, since he enjoyed travelling and collecting fashionable items, and so did his business friends.

Until now, I had considered them to be something a lady should not carry – which, might I add, is very unlike me.

The wooden box contained a cloth and three spare ink cartridges. I assumed the cloth was to mop up ink spillages. The fountain pen was a light brown colour with a shiny sheen to it. The colour mildly resembled the shade of my eyes and I hoped with all hopes that wasn't the reason Erik had chosen it.

I believed myself to be ill-prepared for corny statements from gentlemen. From Erik, they would be ten times worse.

"Thank you," I murmured, nodding at him politely.

"Is it to your fancy?"

"Very much so."

"Might I be so bold as to ask you to try it now?" He spoke with an air of nervousness, which made me smile. For a man that tried so hard to appear a brick wall, Erik was undoubtedly the most human man I had ever met.

I complied, writing my full name on the paper. Then, just to be sure, I wrote 'Erik Phantom'. He laughed when he saw and took the pen from me.

In his tiny, scrawl he wrote 'Erik Destler'.

"Destler?" I questioned.

"Yes, Destler."

Shortly after that, he left, leaving me in a stunned daze. It had become a regular thing for Erik to reveal something personal to me and vanish in the blink of an eye. I did not mind, not really, as his company could sometimes be bothersome. He had such an air of proudness and arrogance. I was not terribly proud, but the majority of his other traits were much like my own.

I did not like the fact that we were prone to the same reactions or that we were both moderately recluse. He did not like this either, so I failed to see why he kept visiting me.

I turned my head back to Murielle, as she had said something I hadn't quite caught. I had been too busy pondering Erik's gift giving.

"What did you say?"

"I asked whether you would like to meet my children."

My eyes widened and my stomach turned. Why had she thought I would like to interact with children?

"Before you say anything, they are extremely well behaved and," she rolled her eyes, "they have the appropriate ladylike mannerisms."

"So they do not whinge?" I asked hopefully.

"Of course they whinge; they are children!"

I huffed, "How old?"

"Bernadette is five years of age and my youngest, Henrie, has just turned two. They are such splendidly handsome children, Bernie. I suppose it must have something to do with my husband. Oh, he is gorgeous and so generous and a brilliant father. He spends so much time with them I am surprised we even need a wet nurse!"

I had heard many tales of the great Luca Bruchan. He was handsome and kind and quite articulate. Apparently, he was not the usual rich fop that so many other wealthy men were. From what I had heard, he seemed to be a liable participant for quite a stimulating conversation.

Coming to think of it, I had only met one man that had engaged me in a conversation which was not completely mind-numbing.

"How old are you?" I asked before realising the rudeness of my question.

I brought my hands up to my mouth and lowered them once I had remembered exactly whom I was dealing with. Murielle did not follow the rules of normal propriety, as I had learned during our first meeting.

She reached down to hold my hand, "Don't fret so, Bernadette. I am twenty three."

I furrowed my brow, counting back the years. She had been just eighteen when she had her first child and twenty-one when she had Henrie. I understood it was common for women to be married off at a young age. Usually fathers gave their daughters to legible suitors.

My father would have had no such luck – not that any suitors had ever been knocking upon my door! I would never have consented to such a marriage, nor would I have married quietly. Despite his ill ways I did not think he would have given me away to any old fellow.

In his eyes, a legible suitor would have: a vast fortune; a considerable number of manors scattered across the country; at least one penthouse abroad and; hard work ethic. In all honesty, I was sure no more than two dozen men fit into my father's categories.

He did have many friends, however, that would have been more than happy to have taken me and father would have been most obliged to offer me.

I found it most disturbing that women could be thrown around and given to whoever may want them, even if it is against their own will. I would much prefer to end up as an old spinster, content with just the child (and possible grandchildren), alone and enjoying my own company.

"How old is Luca, then? I'm guessing older than you," I spoke after a while. Murielle had since taken to threading her needle with a new colour but halted her actions when I had spoken.

She shook her head, "Not too much older. He is to turn twenty-seven tomorrow," she stood up abruptly, gasping, "That reminds me! I must get him a gift."

"Oh," I looked down disappointedly, but masked my sadness so that she would not assume I would be at a loss without her company. Truthfully, I would be sad to see her go, though I would never admit it.

"You must join me!"

She grinned at me as she laced up her bonnet and threw a shift over her shoulders. Winter was soon approaching and she honestly did not look warm enough to be going out in such weather.

"I can't," I said, finishing off my paragraph.

"Why on earth not? You are my maid, yes?"

I nodded.

"Then I order you to accompany me!" She said with such finality I did not want to cross her.

"I thought we friends," I quirked an eyebrow at her.

She sat on the floor beside me with a huff, "You are right. I am asking you, then. Please join me; what is the worst that could happen?"

I was mentally ticking off all the possibilities which could occur if I dared to exit the Opera house. Among other, less trivial things, I could bump into my parents. It was the winter season and my mother, no doubt, would want to update her wardrobe. Not that she needed to.

Then again, it is not as though they would acknowledge me in any way. If they did, this could be a way to show them I am 'improving' and they might let me leave. I truly wanted to leave.

I would miss Murielle and Maria, perhaps even Victoire, but that did not excuse the fact that I had a life to live outside of this place. Pretending to be a maid is not the career I wished to pursue.

Coming to the conclusion that I had nothing better to do, I smiled across at Murielle. This was all the confirmation she needed and she jumped to her feet, pulling me up with her. With a hand on her chin, she circled me, seeming progressively more displeased with my attire.

I was dressed in my usual black dress and white pinafore; this was customary for maids. I hated the dress since the material irritated my arms. Do not even get me started on the dreadful corset!

"You must change," she said, her voice full of concern, "This cannot be comfortable."

"It is not!"

She giggled. "Well, we are about the same size, so you may help yourself to one of my dresses."

I gaped at her, confusion clouding my mind. She would let me, her apparently insane friend, wear something fit for queens? My eyes traced over her petite figure and I shook my head.

"I could not fit into your clothes, Murielle. I am far too fat."

"It is not fat! It is simply the swell of your baby, my dear."

"Murielle, I was swollen, as you say, far before I became pregnant. You…you are so thin. I suspect if I were to wrap my hands around your waist, they would touch!"

She shook her head and took my hands, "You are shapely and womanly. Not fat. Luca always said to me, 'Murielle, mon soleil, pregnancy is most becoming of you. The sun cannot compare to your current glow.' That is what you must remember, my dear friend."

I raised my eyebrows in disbelief, unsure how to respond to her _valiant_ attempt of reassurance.

"If you say so, Murielle." I said finally.

"Yes, I do."

And with that, Murielle ordered me to undress and pulled out a medium blue coloured gown on me. Unlike Deschamps, she left my corset laced loosely and I had never felt so free. Corsets were such terribly restricting contraptions. She also brushed out my hair, much to my distaste, and tied it back at the nape of my neck with a blue ribbon. She then reached into her chest of drawers and pulled out a heart-shaped pendant. Once she was satisfied, she led me to the full length mirror.

In my time I had owned many fine dresses, though none were quite as flattering as this one. Mother never wanted me to outshine her, so my wardrobe was restricted to cream colours and light browns – which did not flatter my skin tone – while she wore bright, prominent colours. Yet here I was now looking, dare I say it, far more flattering than she had ever looked in blues.

I did not want to let it go to my head, and turned away from the mirror to look at Murielle. She had tears in her eyes and I wasn't too prepared to deal with crying females, so I turned my attention back to my reflection.

"Thank you, I suppose we could go out now I look like a respectable woman."

We giggled together as we started to clear up the pillows. Once they were arranged in a tidy manner, I said goodbye to her and told her I would return after I had taken my things back to my room. She suggested I also got some money.

I found it quite laughable that she actually thought I had come here with money. Perhaps she thought I was getting paid for being her 'maid'.

As I was walking through the corridors, I heard a swish of capes. No doubt Erik was trying to get my attention. Nonetheless, I carried on walk, ignoring any suggestions he might have been trying to get through to me. I was far too happy to be dealing with Erik's nonsense.

Sure enough when she finally went into her room, Erik was lounging on the bed. I rolled my eyes and stuffed the notebook under my bed.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Monsieur?"

"Where are you going looking like that?" He frowned at me, looking me up and down with a look of pure distaste.

I tugged on the skirt in an attempt to look more presentable. "Do I really look that awful?"

He straightens up and stares at me. His mouth was tight and hard, his eyes a cold, dull gold. I feared this would happen. The dress had given me a few moments of happiness but it wouldn't be good enough to tempt his appreciation.

Not that I cared terribly.

"It's a lovely dress. It's just not…it doesn't suit you, do you understand?" This is his reply.

"Murielle said-"

"I heard what she said. It's not _you. _This," he gestured rudely, "is not Bernadette."

I swallowed loudly. "You are used to me in rags. Who are you to tell me what is and what is not _me_? You do not know me, Erik, so stop pretending you do!"

"I know you better than you think."

I changed from my black boots into a pair of brown ones, as I thought they suited me better. Then, with ease, I picked up one of the boots I was not wearing and launched it at Erik, who caught it before it could make contact with his face. He jumped up and started to move towards me when an impatient knock sounded on my door.

We stood, frozen, for a second before I shoved Erik into the wall, pinning him there with my hands on his shoulders. If he truly wanted to, he probably could have thrown me to the floor then and there. However, given his concern for my condition and his general policy of not harming women, I doubted he would.

"Hide somewhere!" I whisper-shouted. "Or, make haste and go into the wall."

"Strictly speaking, it isn't really a wall. Rather, a secret passage of sorts."

He licked his lips before revealing his neat teeth in a smile that could make any other woman (aside from me) melt. I rolled my eyes for what seemed like the hundredth time today.

"Bernadette, I'm coming in!"

"Be patient a minute Murielle!" I shouted. "What on earth are you waiting for?"

"I'm waiting for you to release me."

I looked down at my hands and embarrassingly enough they were now wrapped around his biceps. He appeared to be a gangly thing, though under that suit of his, his muscles were hard as stone.

"Oh…very well then. Now you can go." I released him.

We nodded at each other, a smug smile on his face and another eye roll from me. Then, as if it was timed perfectly, Murielle came bursting through the door. Trailing behind her was the last person I wanted to see.

Somehow I managed to keep my composure and rested my back on the wall Erik had previously occupied. Murielle held up her hand as if she was trying to silence and restrain me without actually touching me. Smiling nervously, she beckoned me forwards.

"Madame Deschamps insisted we have a male escort and she saw no reason why it couldn't be Jean-Luc," her eyes searched mine for signs of trepidation, I presumed, "I tried to dissuade her from the idea, though she proved to be scarily persistent."

"Mademoiselle Baudin, I can promise you now that I will not walk near you or even talk to you, should you not wish it. My primary focus on this day is to keep you out of harm's way."

I considered this for a moment. "Tell me, Monsieur, what is your father's name?"

"Alphonse Mouzon, Mademoiselle."

We considered each other for a moment; his eyes searched mine for hidden motives, mine searched his for any slight inclination that he was anything like his dreadful father. He was young, perhaps no older than sixteen, and had the same piercing blue eyes as his father. Such cold, cold eyes – cold eyes which promised harm.

True, he did not seem very much like his father manner-wise, but the resemblance between the two was uncanny. It frightened me.

"I would very much regret having to ask you not to try and converse with me in any way, but I am afraid I must."

I watched as his eyes lowered to the floor sadly. In all honesty, I did not regret telling him not to talk to me, as I could not be certain that beneath those childishly boyish looks, he was not a brute like his father. His sadness did not bother me and I was almost positive that sadness was not difficult to fake.

After all, I had faked my own remorse on my first day here to avoid confrontation with Deschamps. I smirked at the fond memory of tricking a woman who seemed so aware.

"Shall we depart then?" Murielle asked, wrapping her arm around mine.

"We shall," I smiled uncomfortably at the contact, as I still felt as though she had betrayed me by bringing that boy here.

* * *

When I first arrived at the Opera house I did not have enough time to appreciate the outside splendour. But then, as my feet graced the stone, diamond-shaped floors of the outside world, I felt truly at home. Grey clouds covered the usually cobalt sky, hinting to the possibility of rain or snow. Standing outside during showers of both of these weathers brought me great joy back home.

The compact Parisian square was busy; people were either shopping, minding their own market stalls or inside their shops and cafés. They all smiled pleasantly enough at us as we weaved in and out of the shops, finally stopping at an ornament shop.

"Luca adores figurines," Murielle explained, eyeing up one particular ornament. It was a swan, surely not something that would tempt Luca. I watched as she walked away from it, to look at ornaments that appeared to be more 'manly'.

We had already obtained two fine, silken cravats – one in a royal blue colour, the other a musky green – and two waistcoats to match. Apparently, Luca enjoyed dressing finely. Gazing at Murielle, I had come to the conclusion that the love of fine dressing ran in their family. It left me once again wondering what their children looked like.

I had no immediate desire to meet them, as children annoyed me to no end, but that did not mean I was not curious. These curiosities then led me to consider the appearance of my own child.

_He _(I refused to speak his name) had sandy brown hair and those same cold blue eyes that his son had, and a tanned complexion. On the other hand, I had frizzy blonde hair and lifeless brown eyes. I hoped with every hope that the child would not resemble _him _in the slightest, even if my looks were not entirely desirable.

Whilst Murielle was preoccupied, I picked up the swan and moved to the counter. The old woman behind it raised her eyebrows at me, appearing to not understand what exactly I wanted with her.

"Beg your pardon, Madame, but how much for this?" I held up the swan so she could see it.

"For you, twenty francs," she said with a strong Russian accent.

I smiled disappointedly. "Oh, thank you."

As I turned away an idea occurred to me. Perhaps until the time came for an occasion when I could give this to Murielle occurred, I could have the woman look after this! Then came the question of how exactly I would earn the money…

"Say, Madame! Would it be quite possible for you to look after this until I am able to pay for it?"

She squinted, "I do not know…"

"I beg you, Madame! It is for a very dear friend and I can tell she would like it. She is just far too proud to buy it for herself."

She smiled understandingly, taking the glass swan from my hands. "There is another costumer that wants this, but he seemed less determined then you."

"Thank you." I curtsied politely before scurrying off to find Murielle.

In the end, she brought a large grandfather clock, which Jean-Luc carried, and a small, glass sailing ship. We two then went to the nearest café to the Opera house. Jean-Luc, however, said he would prefer to take our purchases back to the Opera. After pardoning himself, Murielle took this as a prime opportunity to discuss what had been on her mind since she had barged into my room.

"Who is your male friend, Bernie?"

She smirked evilly at me, leaning forward so I had no choice but to meet her gaze.

"I have no male suitor!" I replied, at a too high volume. A few females around the room turned to me, either smiling wickedly or turning their noses up in disgust. It was true; I didn't have a male suitor. I wasn't even sure that Erik and I were friends.

"I said friend – not suitor."

Seeing I had made another fatal mistake, I hid behind my hand.

"Are you – are you _blushing_?" She chortled. "You like him. What is his name?"

"Please, could we talk of something else? I do not like men."

"So you like women?"

"Madame!"

"Bernadette!"

"Madame!"

"Bernadette! Must it always come to this?"

I laughed then despite myself, sipping my tea quietly. She copied my actions before playing with a loose strand of her hair.

"Very well. Perhaps we could return to our earlier discussion: baby names! There must be one name you love."

I thought back to all the people I had ever met, on name seeming to return to my mind, much to my annoyance. Sensing she would not give up, I decided to speak my mind.

"Erik."

She pondered for a moment, mouthing the word. "I love the name Erik_a_, for a girl. Where did you get that name?"

I was unsure of how to reply to that. I really did want to tell Murielle about the Opera Ghost, though whenever I tried to reveal something to her, she passed it off as me jesting again. She was a very understanding person, for the most part, though far too happy for her own good.

I had learned long ago to not live life with too much glee, as when you are happy for too long something bad is sure to happen. It is so much easier to expect the worst from people and situations.

So, rather than replying truthfully, I let out a small white lie.

"I may have had a servant named Erik once. Back at my home."

She seemed to believe me and smiled eagerly, anticipating a story. I did not give her one, instead took to sipping my tea. Neither of us spoke again until we decided to order a pastry each. She insisted I have most of hers, as I was eating for two. She would not take no for an answer and ensured I ate every bite.

When we returned, the sky was dark and the moon was shining brightly. A chill had returned to the previously pleasantly chilled air and we huddled together to create more bodily heat. We said our goodbyes before returning to our own rooms.

She would not return for another week, as she wanted to spend time with her family before opening night. I tried not to pretend that I would probably be lost without her here, convincing myself that Deschamps would find something for me to occupy myself with.

_Speak of the devil and they will appear,_ I thought as Deschamps bumped into me outside my door. Stern as ever, she looked down at me, gazing from every angle just like she did during our first meeting. This time, I was prepared if not still completely uncomfortable.

"Do you sew?" She asked after a while.

"I do," I said, "but poorly."

"But you do know the basics?"

"Indeed I do, Madame."

"Then starting from tomorrow you will assist the costume department. I believe they have a few resizing jobs to do."

With that last remark and a stiff nod of her head, Deschamps departed, leaving me to slowly walk into my room. As the door snapped shut, I leant my head against it gently. Deschamps would never cease to both amaze and bore me to death. One minute she would try to see accessible, like a parental figure and the next she was back to her beloved drill sergeant persona.

I light a candle, not enjoying the pitch black darkness and I change out of Murielle's dress, making a mental note to give it back to her, before I begin singing a simple lullaby under my breath. Once I am dressed in my night gown, I extinguish the flame and tuck myself in, lay a hand on my stomach and close my eyes.

No more than three minutes after I am settled, I hear the familiar noise of Erik's secret compartment. I do not open my eyes but I open my mouth to speak as I hear his almost silent footfalls. Had we been in any other situation (or any room other than my silent bedroom) I may not have heard him. But I did and I felt pressure on my feet as he sat himself on the end of my bed.

"What do you want?" I ask calmly.

"Your _delightful _company."

I laugh and he joins me, the sound filling the room with a pleasant, happy atmosphere.

"You want to name your child Erik? God help that poor soul," he snorts before standing up and drifting towards to window, his back facing me.

"It was the first name I could think of- wait, were you following us?"

At first I am alarmed that Erik would dare to venture from the Opera house, and then I remember he never does anything without good reason.

"I noticed you are not comfortable around Jean-Luc. I wished to ensure you would not come to harm."

"Do not follow me, Erik," I spoke in such a quiet voice I was surprised he heard me. He always hears.

"Can you blame me for worrying about you?" He asks, his question causing me to sit up abruptly and stare at him.

"I don't understand. Why are you so worried? Do you think me weak?"

He laughed bitterly. "I know you are not weak – you punched me for heaven's sake! I pray you will not make that same mistake again, Mademoiselle."

I stand only to have him gently push me back down.

"You should sleep, I am sorry for coming here."

I kick him away from me and turn over. It wasn't that hard of a kick, but he groans in pain nonetheless. I turned to see him clutching his thigh. This time when I get out of the bed he makes no move to restrain me. Instead he allowed me to grab his wrists and wrestle them from his leg. His hands, which only now I had noticed were gloveless, were covered in blood.

"What happened to you?" I gasped, seeing a rip in his trousers.

"I had a little misunderstanding with one Monsieur Mouzon."

I stopped what I was doing to look into his eyes. He was not lying or making any kind of joke. Even in the darkness, with only the moon for illumination, the bright yellow of his eyes shone like candlelight. I saw a fire there, a fire challenging me to question him.

"Let me help you," I pleaded, feeling at a loss with what to do. He was clearly in pain, and I had worsened it, but I had no way of aiding him alone. "Allow me to fetch Madame Deschamps. She is your friend is she not?"

"I do not have friends," he snapped, "Only enemies and people I tolerate."

I sat back on my heels to smile wickedly at him. "Which category do I fit into?"

"Neither." I furrowed my eyebrows at his reply then decided I had more urgent matters to attend to. I opened my mouth to speak, but he interrupted me.

"Fetch me a cloth and some water – preferably cold. Is there anywhere you can get honey and bandages?"

I made a mental list of everything he asked for.

"Please let me get Madame Deschamps! I cannot help you alone!"

"You needn't help me at all. Just fetch me what I asked for."

I nodded and got up, fetching what I could from my own room and walking towards the kitchens for the honey and cold water. The Opera house was far more intimidating in earlier hours, when there were people around. However then I was always reassured by the possibility that no one would approach me if I was not alone. People respected Murielle far too much to approach one of her acquaintances; they had no interest in interacting with children and; no one wanted to risk talking to Madame Deschamps.

I took what I needed from the kitchen, hoping the staff would not miss the honey, and stuck to the shadows as I made my way back to my bedroom. As I was nearing my door, a voice startled me…The kind of whisper which leaves you trembling in its wake.

"It isn't safe for little girls at this time of night, Mademoiselle Baudin."

_Jean-Luc_. He smiled at me, though it was not the kind smile he had given me a few hours earlier. I nodded, smiling innocently at him before rushing into my room and bolting the door.

Erik had already started to work on the gash on his thigh. He had ripped open the top part of his trousers to reveal his bare thigh to my gaze. I blushed, despite having seen a man's thigh before. Erik did not seem bothered by this new intimacy, though I suspected that he too had seen more than his share of naked bodies whilst parading around in the walls.

I handed him what he needed and watched him work. He seemed to know what he was doing, wincing only when he dabbed at the wound too hard and learning from his mistakes. Once he had finished, he did not wrap the wound in bandages, like I thought he would have.

"I don't think it would make me a very fine gentleman if I was to take off my trousers in front of you, Bernadette," he explained, causing me to blush.

"Does it need stitches?"

He shook his head, put a finger to his lips and laid me down in my bed, pulling the covers to my chin. We regarded one another silently for a moment. His gaze was full of the thanks I knew he was too proud to give and mine was full of the silent acceptance of this, grateful for any way he would portray his emotions. After a short while he leant away from me.

"I am sorry you were hurt," I whispered, staring at his back. I thought if I stared hard enough he would know to turn round and meet my eyes like a man. He did.

Smiling forcedly, he leant down towards me. The closeness made me want to run away, as I knew he did not particularly like me – not that I had given him good reason to.

A single, now clean, finger trailed from my temple to my bare neck, causing me to shiver involuntarily. Smiling wholesomely now, he leant down to press his lips in between my brow, "It is all for a good cause."

* * *

**I had so much fun writing this one. Your reviews truly brighten my day! I do believe this is the longest one yet, thus proving my theory that when Murielle is involved, the chapters are longer.**

**Michellecarriveau: It's getting a little bit more interesting now (I hope). I hope you stay hooked!**

**Eponine Sparrow: Nothing really seems to go Bernadette's way, does it? L**

**Deanna37: Erik is so painfully awkward I don't know whether to punch or kiss him either! We'll see if your theories are proven…Your reviews make my day!**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Somehow for the three days following, what I assumed would be 'a light hemming job' turned out to be a job which required fifteen members of the Opera house's staff – including staff whose jobs had nothing to do with the costume department. With a week to go before the performance, I considered this frantic working completely unprofessional. I was knee deep in masses of fabric and thread one night until far beyond midnight! I had assumed Deschamps would have had some kind of aversion to that but boy was I wrong! She merely poked her head in every few hours, froze me with her steely gaze and then took off once more; only to repeat the process again and again and again.

I found this utterly amusing, as I knew _exactly _who she was looking for. Did she really expect him to be hovering around me every second?

Funnily enough, and unbeknownst to be, that was exactly what the sly bastard was doing. He didn't appear to me outright, though once everyone had cleared out for their breaks (I was not included in this resting session) I heard the swish of his cape against the ground, or that mocking, sinister chuckle he always offered whenever I had done something stupid.

On this occasion, the chuckle was given when I very unfairly pricked my finger on the stupidly miniature needle. The prick was not hard enough to draw blood, but just hard enough to annoy me and cause a sharp stinging sensation. I saw no amusement in that whatsoever.

The awful thing about not participating in breaks was the fact that I was always hungry. As Murielle said, I was 'eating for two' so apparently it only made sense for me to eat double the usual amount. Of course, eating like a pig would raise suspicion; not that a large pregnant stomach wouldn't do exactly the same!

We had yet to discuss what we would do about that aspect of my gestation. No one would believe us if we just said I had put on a considerable amount of weight and most of it went to my mid-section.

Whilst on the subject of weight, I suppose that now would be a correct time to admit that I had put on rather a lot. My ankles had swollen considerably, tending to lock and click whenever I sat down, though luckily no one had had the great pleasure of seeing those. Despite Deschamps assuring me I had yet to experience stomach inflation, I knew _something _had changed. It was as though the 'bump' was there subconsciously.

Then there was the new feeling of serious anxiety that something bad would happen. I had heard storied of women in their first three months of gestation who had lost their baby. I could do without the child (being pregnant was a great burden) but I would never wish death against something so small and helpless. Something that was part of me. Something I had made.

How strange it is that two human beings can create another human being through the simplest of acts.

I shivered at the thought of that particular matter. Alphonse Mouzon was back in town, I knew that much. Jean-Luc would no doubt tell his father that I had been asking about him. I roughly rammed the needle and thread into the silk dress I was currently hemming.

It was one of Murielle's – this was the fourth one I had sewn, since divas need to have more dresses spare – and I truly didn't want it to be shabby. However it wasn't my fault that I happened to be sewing her dress in particular when I was in a bad mood. Anyhow she had three more to spare.

I was angry. I was doing something at a level that would be considered unsatisfactory to some people. The only thing missing was-

"You are making a rough job of that. Is it a dress or a rag? I do hope with all hopes that they're not paying you for this."

My gaze flickered up to see a dark shadow emerging from between the coat rails. I tried to contain my laughter at his choice of hiding place, but his amused expression and the piece of fabric on his shoulder was enough to cause me to burst into a fit of giggles. He glared at me, more so when tears started leaking from my eyes.

He wore a green and black vest with his usual gentleman's attire with that ridiculous cloak and hat. Why he insisted in wearing the outfit was completely beside me.

He took a step closer and lifted the fabric off with his pointing finger. He made to advance towards me but I held a hand up, attempting to blot away the tears with the other hand.

"Come any closer and I promise you I will poke your eyes out with this needle."

He laughed, "Oh I am sure, Bernadette."

"So you should be!"

He leaned closer towards me, narrowing his eyes.

"Swear to it."

I locked my gaze with his, at the same time lifting the needle so it was in line with his pupil. "I swear. Do not take me for a coward, Erik." Satisfied, he leaned back, smiling to himself as he lowered to crouch in front of me on the floor. I went back to viciously sewing.

"You seem angry." My eyes flickered back to his before I went back to the sewing once again.

"I am," I paused thoughtfully, "Though, I think I'm more worried than anything."

"About?" He asked casually. I knew he didn't really care.

Before I had the chance to answer, two voices echoed through the hallway outside of the costume department's door. One belonged to Madame Deschamps.

The other belonged to my father.

Erik, taking the initiative, jumped to his feet and once again faded into the darkness. I raised an eyebrow in his direction and got to my feet as well, facing away from the door. I could hear them talking, though they were too far for it to be above a murmur. Then, almost suddenly, the voices were right outside the door. At that moment, I realised that there were not two voices. There were three.

"And how is she, Madame? I trust she has learnt at least something from your teachings?"

That was my father. I was half tempted to walk out there and tell them that I had learnt nothing – she hadn't even pulled me aside to 'teach' me anything. I very much doubted she even would.

"She has indeed. I assure you that you will see an improvement, despite how subtle it may be."

"We are not here for subtlety, Madame," my father warned.

I took Madame Deschamps' words as a warning. If I didn't show improvement, something bad would not only happen to me but to her. As much as I didn't care for the woman, I wished for no one to face the wrath of my father.

"Phillipe," a woman's voice warned. Her voice trickled like honey towards my ears. It was my mother.

"Not now, Christelle. Know your place," he went on, "We will see her now."

I gasped and fixed my hair, dusting down the dress Murielle had let me borrow. Deschamps told me I could carry on wearing it if it so pleased me. Now I knew she only agreed because she knew of my parents' visit.

"You look well," Erik reassured me, from wherever he was.

"Be quiet, you."

Someone, presumably Deschamps, knocked thrice on the door. I took a deep breath and kept my back towards it, feeling the slight creak as it was opened. I had not prepared myself for this visit – not at all. I knew I would have to be on my best behaviour now and show eloquence and grace and all the things Deschamps was meant to have told me.

Three pairs of footsteps entered the room; the clicking of two high-heeled shoes and the stomping of my father's heavy-footed walk. I sucked in a breath and turned to face them.

Keeping my head down I dipped into a low curtsey, waiting until I could see my father's boots in my gaze. Slowly, I lifted my head and met his eyes.

"Bernadette," he acknowledged, giving me a look of – if I am not mistaken – surprise and appraisal. "She looks well does she not, my dear?"

"Told you," Erik's voice drifted towards my ears alone.

I risked a look towards my mother, feeling immediately saddened by her indifferent expression. She calmly stepped towards me, took a clip out of her hair and fastened a loose strand of my hair into the messy bun. She didn't smile; she didn't glare either. Her face was neutral and beautiful as always, her eyes bright and alive, her hair perfect in every way. She certainly did not look like a thirty five year old woman.

"Yes, she certainly does."

Mother stared at me for a while; I could still not discern her expression. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a piece of fabric twitch. Erik had still occupied the same senseless hiding place. Father, who until now had gone unnoticed to my mother and I, took a step towards Deschamps, whispered something and smirked as she scurried away. Then he invited mother to sit and took the only other seat in the room beside her. I was left standing, fidgeting and not quite knowing what to do with myself. They watched me calmly - both seeming to judge my appearance and my every move – before father cleared his throat and looked me straight in the eye.

"I am told you have made friends with Murielle Bruchan."

I shook my head, "We are not friends, father. I am her maid."

Mother placed a hand on her chest. "Phillipe…our daughter…a servant! Look what they are having her do!"

"Christelle-"

"No Phillipe!"

Father grasped her tightly by the shoulder and leaned in close towards her, his top lip curling under as he sneered in her face. I saw her chest move up and down rapidly, no doubt fearing what he would do. Still, she did not give up. Mother stood her ground and met his stern gaze.

"It is an embarrassment! An embarrassment, I tell you!"

Father puffed out his cheeks and backed away from her. "It's not like this will make any difference. She is in Madame Bruchan's good books, is she not?" He looked to me for confirmation, though I gave him a slight shrug in response. This seemed to be enough for him. "We will raise, Christelle."

"How would you like to sit, Lady Mother, father?"

I was not heard over the rushed, private whisperings that followed. Mother's eyes kept flitting over towards me; she looked me up and down a few times before turning back to father. This continued for a few moments before mother sat herself delicately on the very edge of the seat. It certainly wasn't like the way Murielle and I sat. If mother were to see that she would surely die of shock!

I fidgeted on my feet worrying, as usual, what it was they were planning to do.

"You do fidget so, you daft girl." Father snapped. To anyone else, this would seem a jesting reprimand, but I knew father only meant ill. I could tell by the way he did not meet my gaze, pretending to be fully emerged in examining the fine linen trousers he wore.

"Should I tell her, dear?" Mother asked. He grunted in response and mother took this as her cue. "You are to marry."

A loud crash came quite suddenly from the corner of the room. Each of our eyes flickered over to the spot and I mentally cursed Erik for his lack of secrecy. I was having trouble breathing – my heart was picking up in pace – and Erik's little trick was helping nothing.

Two of the things I didn't want to happen just had to happen at exactly the same time.

'"You are to marry."' '"You are to marry."' '"You are to marry."'

The sentence played like a continuous cycle, echoing again and again in my mind. I knew it would happen, sooner or later. It was bound to. There was no flicker of hope, none at all – no bright idea I could somehow muster up.

Unless…

"I am of age!" I declared, smirking at them each in turn, "I am past the age where you can control me."

Father snorted, "Who is paying for your tuition here? Would you rather we threw you to the streets, hm? We would not have this trouble if you took your punishments seriously."

"I hardly think you locking me in my favourite place a punishment."

"Your favourite place?"

"My bedroom you incompetent swine!" I screamed, dodging his lunge towards me. He had me by my hair, yanking and pulling so he could get closer to my face. His ghastly breath ghosted over my face and turned my already uneasy stomach. My hands shot to the delicate place instinctively, as though I could somehow protect the child.

"What did you call me?"

"Phillipe, is this necessary?" Mother chimed in, still sitting down without a care.

Father ignored her: "Say it again, you little bitch. I am not playing games."

I shook my head defiantly. He grabbed me by the throat and squeezed.

"Phillipe put her down! Put her down for the Lord's sake!" Mother shouted, standing to her feet. "That is enough! Bernadette, will you sit down and control yourself!" She gestured towards the seat she had previously occupied.

Mother went from a woman with a graceful disposition to a screaming banshee in a worrying amount of time. In more ways than one, I feared her more than father. Someone who could change their character so nonchalantly could not be safe in any way. No matter how much I wanted her to be.

She caressed father's cheek and smiled prettily. His breathing was quick but as he looked into her eyes and at her protruding décolletage he calmed down, an arrogant smirk souring his unfortunate face even more.

"There, there my love. All is well." She turned to me, raising an eyebrow.

"I apologise," I lied, knowing that this was expected of me.

Father grunted and plopped down onto his seat, gesturing for mother to begin.

"You are incorrect, you know." Mother's lips curved upwards. "You are not yet of age – at least I do not think you are. How old are you again?"

I tried to mask my hurt. "I am nineteen."

Father guffawed, thrusting his fist into the air. "What did I tell you? Nineteen is not twenty-one, now is it?"

"I don't understand…"

Mother smiled falsely, "You gain your inheritance at twenty-one, correct? That is when we cut you loose. For now, you are our property and you will do as we say."

My heart sank. The hope and triumph I had felt just mere minutes before quickly sank. There was no way of getting out of this now.

"Who?" I asked, whispering as quiet as a mouse. Mother's smile faltered.

"It's not someone I would have chosen as a well-made match for you. He has already been married once and he is getting on in his years."

"Who?" I demanded, sudden suspicion and realisation hit me. I knew. I knew exactly who they had chosen. Of course they would choose him.

"Alphonse Mouzon. You are to marry Alphonse Mouzon."

I started shaking with fear, both not fighting it and trying to keep it at bay until my parents left. Alphonse Mouzon was going to be my husband! How grand, how fitting! My child would not be a bastard after all!

Ah yes, the lovely Alphonse! Such a gentle man, such a kind man! My heart rate increased again as I thought of him. I was frightened, ever so frightened.

"He is wealthy," mother told me smugly, "He will take good care of us."

"His son works here. I will be the stepmother to a man who is older than me." I offered weakly, not finding it in me to protest. "He cannot be that rich, what with his son being a lower class scene changing boy."

Mother turned to father, a questioning gleam in her eyes. He huffed angrily at the fact he had to partake in the conversation. Oh such effort!

"Alphonse disowned the boy. Nasty piece of work that Jean fellow. Alphonse so badly wanted a son. I'm doing him a favour, you see, that's what friends do for one another."

I nodded mutely.

"When is the wedding?"

Mother smiled, thinking I had taken an interest. "We were thinking sometime in May. The weather is just delightful at that time!"

May. May was months away. I had enough time to arrange something, enough time to get away.

They left shortly after that, before a stern warning from my father.

"Try anything and I will find you. Oh yes, I will find you. You will rue the day you ever disobeyed me." He told me that, all the while smiling charily around the room with gritted teeth. After an intake of breath on my behalf, he let go of me and walked over to mother. She turned back at me, and then whispered something to my father.

Christelle Baudin walked to me; as graceful as a dolphin emerging from water, her steps as gentle as the waves soar and crash. Beside her calm, controlled demeanour, I could tell by the way she looked at me – with those icy eyes of her- that inside her mind she was plotting something. Most likely something that would greatly benefit her.

I was correct, I could tell the moment she smiled falsely and took my hands in hers. Her hands were soft and Luke-warm as opposed to my cold, clammy and shivering hands.

"You will meet with him soon," she told me, her lips quirking in that awful sideways smirk of hers. "You will be charmed and you will be modest. Make him want to break you from your modesty and release an animal."

I gulped. I knew exactly what she was talking about. "Yes, mother. As you wish it."

"And then, my darling, darling Bernadette," she took my chin in her hand and squeezed roughly, "You will produce his child. His son."

_Already taken care of_, I thought bitterly whilst nodding at her. She shoved me away, wiping her hands with a pink spotty handkerchief, almost as if she considered me dirty.

I was dirty, to be fair. I had gone from a life of grandeur to practically working in the slums. I was pregnant with a bastard child. I was spoiled at nineteen. What worth was I any longer? I wouldn't be someone's wife.

I wouldn't be someone's wife. I wouldn't be someone's wife.

I fell to the ground and sprawled across the floor. The cold tiles pressed against the small fraction of my exposed chest, sending a minute shiver down my spine. I was still shaking, rather violently, and I so longed for someone to come and nurse my wounds. I wished for someone to tell me everything would be fine, that I needn't worry as nothing trivial would happen. It was all a dream, a hallucination.

At times like these I thought back to all those lonely years in the mansion. Up in my chambers with the Irish maid. I had dolls and toys and frocks to amuse myself but it wasn't enough. I was surrounded by people and objects and amusements but I had never felt so alone. I didn't think it was possible to feel more alone than I had then.

No one held me after the nightmares. All I got was a simple, "oh do be quiet Bernadette!" and back off to bed I went.

No one came then, so why should anyone come now?

Past my pessimistic turn of emotions, I loosely recalled a pressure on my shoulder. My eyes were closed (and I had no intention of opening them, mind you) so I had to rely on my other senses. I was being pulled up into a sitting position, though I had no chance to sit bolt upright as I was pushed against a hard chest. I was encased in a cloak and cold hands found my bare arms.

"There, there, child," Erik whispered. He did not sound sympathetic – just angry. So angry, so very passionately angry. Strangely enough that felt more comforting than anything else.

In any other situation, I knew we would both be severely uncomfortable in this position, but we both knew it needed to be done. He knew what it was like to be hurting. I suppose if you knew what the cruel agony of loneliness and pain felt like, you wouldn't wish for anyone else to experience it with you standing by watching.

He rocked me gently a few times, clearly unsure of himself, and uneasily trailed his hands across my back in an attempt of comfort. I laughed at his awkward attitude, having to turn my head into him to stop him hearing me.

"Are you mocking me?" He asked finally. How stupid I was! _He hears_ _everything, remember Bernadette? _I mentally chided myself.

I bit my lip, too ashamed to meet his eyes. "Of course not, Monsieur. You're just so very awkward."

"Is that the thanks I get? Remind me not to embrace a crying woman in the future." I heard a smile in his voice and sighed in relief.

We sat still again, my head resting on his shoulder, his hands no longer touching me. I placed a hand on my stomach.

"I'm frightened," I said at the same time Erik told me: "I'll kill them all."

"You will not!" I raised my voice somewhat.

"Fancy that! The great, brave Bernadette frightened! Alert the media! This is surely a great revelation. How does it feel to be human?"

I moved away from him, fixing my hair as I moved to sit beside him rather than between his thighs. Such an improper position – not that I cared for propriety, but I knew Erik did. Yet another thing the proud ghost decided to put aside for my benefit.

"Everyone, even the bravest of people, is entitled to a moment's fright." I spoke carefully, not wishing to ignite another argument.

He nodded understandingly, "I was joking. Also, do not expect…" he gestured wildly between the two of us, "Don't expect that to happen again."

"Why did you do it?"

A flicker of emotion passed over his burning, golden eyes. It left as soon as it came.

"Crying women are not my forte. I have heard you weep enough times, mon amie intrépid."

I wrinkled my nose, "I am your fearless friend now, am I? I rarely weep, you know. You may have caught me at a bad time."

He chuckled musically, "I suppose we are friends. I do not care for anyone very much, but believe it or not you interest me. You prove to be a liable specimen for my study into human behaviour. Specifically a human who tries their hardest to appear a lion, but inside wilts like a flower."

I didn't quite know how to reply to that. Erik always seemed to speak in riddles, at least to my ears he did. I had never been the brightest girl but I believe even if I was smart I would never understand much of what he went on about. Oh, he did love to go on!

In the end, I blurted out: "I am not a science experiment. You talk about we 'humans' as though you are not one yourself."

"Humanity rejected me and faced me with great hardship. I would much prefer not to associate myself with a race so puerile and venomous. I am the phantom, a ghost. Exactly what everyone says."

"I do not care for what everyone says."

"It would be safer to believe rumours."

"How?"

"The belief of something more exciting and exaggerated pleases us more than reality," he explained.

"And when we find that what we believed is not true it ruins the illusion and pleasure."

He laughed again. He seemed to be laughing a lot more than usual. I took it as a good sign. "I thought I was cynical! You are a new kind of negative, mon cher!"

My lips twitched as I fought a smile. Pet names, I noted, seemed to be in Erik's favour today.

His laughter died down after a while and he stopped smiling at me. His eyes skimmed over mine, flitting across my whole person as though he couldn't quite realise exactly what he was searching for. I pulled an ugly face but he persevered and continued staring at me intently.

"What are we to do?" He asked, not breaking his stare. "I cannot let you marry this man."

"Why not?" I replied, asking a rather stupid question. Selfishly, I hoped he didn't want me to marry this man because he wanted me for himself. Attention is a poisonous thing, is it not? Something as simple as his warm embrace, as his musical laugh, as his equally beautiful voice had left me yearning for more. He probably knew this, too. He was a master hypnotist.

"He raped you, Bernadette, in case you forgot!" His voice was raised and had taken an almost ugly pitch, though ugly is usually not a sensible way of describing almost anything about Erik. He was angry, thoroughly, undoubtedly angry.

"How could I forget? I am reminded every time I am bent over the lavatory expelling the contents of my stomach! I am reminded every time I look in the mirror and see how horribly ill and unhealthy I look! I am reminded every time I feel pain, every time I feel it move inside of me. I want this over with Erik! I wish it never happened!"

"You had not control over it!"

"That's why it is so unfair! I don't want a baby! Look where it has got me!"

He stood and began pacing, "And what do you suggest I do about that? I will not arrange for the murder of your child, if that is what you're asking. God did not grant an ugly child such as myself to die, so I hardly think he would let your child die."

"My child may be disfigured too, you know."

"All the more reason for you to cherish it and make it feel loved! Being hated and feared because you are not stereotypically beautiful is one of, if not the worst feeling someone can ever experience. I did not take you for selfish, Bernadette. Even I, the manifestation of a monster, would not kill a child!"

I rested my head against the sofa and wept. I made no attempt to stop the free-flow as guilt overwhelmed me. I had committed a terrible offence to Erik. I had never seen him so distraught, so betrayed. Everything he had once thought of me disappeared as he mistook my meaning.

"I have no one to help me! I am alone!" I whined like an insolent child. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"You have Murielle, your mother, Madame Deschamps and, if I can't stop it, your husband. Of course you also… you… you have me."

My bottom lip trembled, "But you don't like me. I am a science experiment to you. You tolerate me – you said so yourself!"

"Listen to yourself, woman! Do you realise how foolish you are being? I said I will care for you, what more do you want me to say?"

He was right, I was being foolish. I sounded like a whiny child as opposed to how angry and fierce I usually seemed. He was bored, most probably. Bored of this broken _child _who was scared and very much alone. He didn't know what to do with me; whether to run away screaming or to stay with me. I wished he would stay with me.

I wanted a mass murderer to stay and keep me safe. I almost laughed. Then again, being friends with a mass murderer could prove to be in my favour.

I hit my head against my hand in frustration. How could I think such an awful thing? Erik was rubbing off on me, I was sure of it.

He was expecting an answer I could not truthfully give. What did I want from him? I didn't really want anything except his company. I wanted saving. I wanted someone to save me from this petrifying nightmare.

"I want you to save me, Erik."

His expression turned sombre. "How disgustingly clichéd."

"You asked."

I will never forget his eyes in the next moment; they seemed to burn with anger, weaken with sadness and laugh with humour at the same time. He shook his head, resting his hands under his chin. He looked so distressed, so confused. He was wondering how to answer a madwoman's selfish request. Erik, so smart and logical, seemed to be lost for words. It seemed I had momentarily ruined him and his great mind.

I was being so child, far, far too childish. He knew it too – he was embarrassed to be in my company – though currently too sympathetic to say it outright. To him, I was still a child, barely out of my teenaged years and not yet out of my parents' bounds. What was he – thirty, forty? I hoped for the former, as he seemed far too youthful to be that mature.

He always seemed to appear a fine gentleman, with all his fine clothing and satin and fountain pens. His fortune seemed to be bottomless.

Where on earth had he received such funds? It couldn't have been from someone in the outside world, as someone of his stature surely could not have strolled around alone. A shiver ran down my spine at the thought of Erik stealing from someone. He was a magician, was he not? I was positive he could easily get away with pick-pocketing.

How lucky he was, to have so many traits to his name. And so little praise for his many achievements.

He was looking away from me, staring into the space behind my head. I daren't meet his gaze as I said, "I'm sorry, Erik. How impertinent you must think you." I frowned when he didn't reply. "I really do mean it this time."

Apologies were becoming habit for me and I was unsure how much I liked it. Erik huffed in response.

I squinted. "Wait…"

"Hm?"

"I'll run away. That's it, I'll run away!"

He looked thoroughly amused.

"To where exactly?"

"England…yes…I shall go to England! The land of Shakespeare!" I bit my lip excitedly.

He snorted and crossed his arms disappointedly. "England is a slum. Where is this money coming from? Money does not manifest out of thin air."

"You would know, wouldn't you?"

"Pardon me?"

"How do you receive all of your funding, Erik? I don't expect you have a part-time job you aren't telling me of!"

He chuckled, "First of all: even if I did have a job – which, by the way, I do not – I would certainly not tell _you _about it," he looked at me (finally) venomously, "Secondly, I do not believe it is any of your business, child."

"Fine, fine." He raised an eyebrow, not fully convinced. "I said fine didn't I?"

He sighed and finally occupied his seat beside me, keeping a safe distance. I watched him carefully. Or, rather, I watched the mask. It was made of the finest porcelain, much like the fake faced of my dolls. It suited him, giving him a slight air of mystery and attraction. I wished one day he would allow me to touch the mask, as I didn't think it would be very fair to do so without asking.

Frankly I had no desire to see the other half of his face. I knew it was horrible and gruesome and I'd rather not have to look upon him in his most vulnerable moment. It took away the _Erik _I had fabricated in my mind.

The cool, calm, rebellious Erik who didn't care for nonsense and could sort out his own problems. This Erik had no vulnerable side and never experienced sadness. Any other kind of Erik would ruin him. It would ruin the perfect illusion he and I both wanted to believe.

"In any case I would never allow you to go alone."

He was looking at me now; I could see both sides of his face. I guffawed and rolled my eyes cheekily.

"You are not my father – thank God! – Nor are you my guardian. I am an adult."

The idiot was close to laughing as I sat up straighter, attempting to grow in height.

"Anyway, no one would want to go with me."

"Murielle?" He asked, truly considering the possibility.

"Murielle? Are you out of your mind?!"

He sneered, "I was out of my mind long ago."

I hated it when he went so melancholic! Rolling my eyes, I sighed deeply.

"In case you forgot, Murielle has a husband and two children to tend to! If you suggest Deschamps I promise to castrate you whilst you sleep!"

Wincing, he turned away again, crossing his legs. "I hardly believe I would stay asleep whilst you did… that. What is wrong with Deschamps anyway? I find her to be a delightful character, if I am honest. She definitely knows how to control those dancing brats. There has only been one other that I have known to govern such imps."

"Who is that?"

"An old acquaintance."

"So very vague."

I watched as his face went through a series of emotions before returning back to normal. He was remembering something. Something painful but also something which brought life to his life. He smiled before shaking his head and composing himself.

Erik then went on to watch me from the corner of his eye as I bounced one leg up and down repeatedly. "Would you stop that?" he probably said, though I was hardly listening. I was waiting for another of his wonderful ideas.

I was left disappointed.

Coming to my senses, I realised there was a certain factor we had both been ignoring. We turned toward each other, one after another, and I stared at him seriously.

"You… you could come with me."

**Hello one and all. How long has it been? A month? Two? I am very very very very very very sorry. I really truly am. But life has been pretty hectic lately.**

**Updates should come a bit more frequently now. Either every week or every two weeks. I hope there are still some people interested in this story. I'm trying my best to make sure it's interesting. Thank you for your wonderful reviews. **

**Leave a review and tell me what you think!**


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